InFamous: Bad Blood
by enRAGEd
Summary: After the battle at Ground Zero, Cole finds himself treading the path of an uncertain future alone. But help comes in a most unexpected form just when things seem to be at their worst. 1 week post-game. Critique appreciated. Based on InFamous 1 ONLY.
1. Prologue: An Uncertain Future

**Prologue: An Uncertain Future**

_I never believed in fate. Still don't, I guess._

_People used to say to me that everything happens for a reason. I had a different view. Shit happens, about sums it up. I didn't find any comfort in the idea that there was a grand design, or that some higher power was controlling everything. I figured, any God who sets out to make this world the way it is must be a major asshole._

_Except that somebody did set out to make the world - my world - this way, and the asshole was me._

_When Kessler showed me the truth that day, after our battle at Ground Zero, I started to think about my life, his life, how we were different. I wondered how much of the past he'd changed after he'd come back, how much he'd interfered in the course of history, and the course of my life. And when I started, I couldn't stop. Pretty soon, I didn't know how much of my past was real and how much had been engineered by Kessler, to get me ready for whatever lay in my future._

_I wondered if Trish had always been the woman I loved, or if the accident that killed her mother and inspired her to become a doctor was just another part of his conspiracy? Would Zeke always have betrayed me, or was Kessler responsible for his old man's disappearance, to make him feel worthless and insecure, and fill his head with those goddamn conspiracy theories? How many other people did he kill, or cheat out of the lives they would have had, to complete his mission?_

_I tried to find those memories in Kessler's head. The ones that would help me understand how different, or how similar, we were. All I saw were those same images he'd shown me before he died. Images of the Beast as it tore through city after city, spreading its devastation like a plague, slaughtering people by the thousand. I buried his body in the crater where it had all started for me. Even now, thinking about it, I still can't believe the truth. It's me in that grave, a future me, a me that can never exist._

_Because I can't become Kessler - I won't._

_Even now, a week later, I'm still trying to pick up the pieces of the "legacy" he left me. Empire City's crisis didn't end with him. Sure, he may have started it. He may have destroyed the city, killed hundreds and ruined the lives of the ones who survived, but his death didn't fix that. No, he left that up to me. Food is scarce. Water is precious. Electricity is sacred. But its hope that's hardest to come by._

_People are doing the best they can, but they've lost so much. To make matters worse, the plague's still eating away at this city's heart. Dozens die every day, no matter how hard we try to stop it spreading. The government promised us a cure, but we've given up listening to the politicians and the media._

_Then there's the gangs. They still own the streets and there's nothing the police can do to stop them, outnumbered and outgunned by the new law: the law of the jungle, eat or be eaten, survival of the fittest. Yeah, the scumbags are here to stay. They've got the power in this crippled city and they're making sure everyone knows it, especially me._

_The Reapers are turning people into murdering psychos faster than we can save them. Sasha's still alive somewhere, twisted mind bent on vengeance. The shanty town at the heart of the Warren has become the unofficial dominion of the Dust Men. A city within a city, and deep within that fortress Alden's plotting his comeback. Leaderless, the First Sons wage war over the power vacuum left by Kessler, and they don't care how many innocent people they kill with their infighting. But when it's over, I know what their first objective will be: to recreate the Ray Sphere, and increase their own power._

_And that's what I fear most. One Ray Sphere maimed this city. Another would kill it._

_The shadow of the Beast looms over it all. I'm living with the knowledge that, one day, the world will face something stronger than Sasha, Alden, even Kessler. And if I don't stand against it then the world will burn. I'm driven by the promise I made standing over the dead body of my future self, the promise I renewed kneeling at Trish's grave. I'll grow stronger. I'll protect this city, and, when it comes, I'll face the Beast._

_And if I can't stop it, then God help the world, because I won't be able to anymore._

-x-x-x-x-x-

Shots ring out in the darkness. People scream. No sirens. If the cops are out there, they aren't coming. Just a regular night in Empire City.

Footsteps in the alleyway. Hooded shadows hurry below, knocking over trash cans in their haste. Boots splash through puddles and tear open garbage bags. They wear street clothes. Battered jeans and weathered red tops, emblazoned with anarchic, hand-stitched symbols - skulls, guns, flames. Reapers. They carry old AK-47 assault rifles, looted from gun shops or collectors. They shoot into the air as a warning to anyone that might be tempted to get in the way.

They move like they've got a purpose, but beneath their shrouds their eyes are blank, black froth bubbling from slack lips. Insanity lurks beneath the surface. They're nothing but puppets, drones controlled by the Conduit, the high-level psychic, that produced the tar filling their lungs and enslaving their minds. The one called Sasha.

Something jumps from a rooftop, dropping into the alley from five storeys up, and lands in a crouch in front of them. They recoil, stunned. Addled minds search for meaning. They wait for their mistress to give them the answers. The figure in front of them rises, light from a single bulb shining on padded leather in yellow and black, hood pulled up to keep the rain off. He flexes his fingers and electricity drips from their tips. It dances across the puddles at his feet. The bulb brightens as he lifts his head. Brighter still as his eyes take in the unwitting criminals in front of him. Then it explodes in a shower of glass, overloaded.

Even in the black, his eyes glow.

"You assholes picked the wrong night."

The darkness explodes, a thunderclap exploding from his palms as he thrusts his hands forward. A wave of pure energy smashes the gang members off their feet and sends them hurtling backwards. One slams into the side of a dumpster and slumps to the floor. Another has an unfortunate meeting with a fire escape ladder and ends up hanging by one leg from the bottom rung. The others fly out of the alleyway, crashing into a car parked at the exit.

One Reaper cripples the passenger side door and snaps off the wing mirror. But he's got the wherewithal to keep hold of his assault rifle. All the lights in the passage are out now, obliterated by the blast, but he can see the glowing eyes fixed on him, stalking towards him. He opens fire. His enemy retaliates, shooting pure electricity from his fingertips. It hits his gun and, suddenly, keeping hold of it doesn't seem like such a good idea. Gunpowder bursts into life. Bullets tear the weapon apart from the inside and almost blow his arm off.

He survives the explosion long enough for a lightning bolt to hit him full in the face, singing his hair and knocking him out cold. Smoke plumes from his hood as he collapses.

Another of them charges, braying out unintelligible grunts, sludge pouring over his chin and down his front. All thoughts of self-preservation are crushed by the corrupting influence of the tar. He runs face first into the man's fist, jaw popping out of place with the impact. A foot collides with his stomach. Fingers ball around the front of his top and then hurl him into the wall. He lies, dazed, until a boot to the underside of his swollen chin sends him to sleep.

The last grabs his fallen rifle and starts shooting, coordination gone. The enemy raises a hand, palm out. His bullets turn into a light show against the invisible shield and then fall to the ground like lead rain. The gun runs empty. The other hand thrusts towards him. A blast of writhing energy whips from its fingertips and earths itself in his head. He crumples to the concrete.

The Reaper who hit the dumpster stands up. Battered, bruised and maybe broken, the mind controlling his doesn't care. It pokes and prods him back into the fray. He grabs a pipe from the floor, holding it like a club, and charges. He'd probably make good on the attack, too, if he wasn't screaming like a lunatic. The other man hears him coming and lunges backwards with his elbow outstretched. It catches him full in the throat, jerks his legs out from under him and sends him crashing to the floor. His makeshift bludgeon rolls away across the ground.

A hand presses into his chest and then a throb of electricity pulses through him. Glowing shackles lace around his wrists and ankles, locking them to the ground. He'll struggle when he wakes up. If he wakes up. But he won't be going anywhere until the cops come to take him in.

Cole MacGrath stands up, holds out a palm. It isn't raining anymore. That's a Godsend. The rain makes his powers go haywire, does strange things to his senses, makes him feel like he's going crazy. He pins the other Reapers down and strides back into the alley, leaving them for the law. Once they're down for the count, they aren't his business anymore. It'll be their job to take them in, hose them down, purge them of Sasha's tar. Maybe even restore some semblance of humanity.

He reaches to the strap of his messenger bag and presses the auto-dial on his cell phone. He only gets the machine. It's not such a surprise. It'll be dawn in a couple more hours.

"Warden, I got a trash pickup for you," he says, and gives the address. He always used to know the city like the back of his hand. Now that everything's changed, he knows it better than ever. "Five in total. They'll wait 'til morning."

He disconnects. These days, Warden Harms is the closest he's got to an ally. They're strangers, barely saying a word to one another, but they both want to protect the people and put the city back together, one piece at a time. Everyone feels like a stranger now. The whole city knows his name, but there's no one he can trust, no one he can turn to. Not after what happened with Zeke. Not after what happened to Trish. He's alone, and that's the way it has to be.

He leaps up, catches the metal rail around a fire escape landing overhead, then takes hold of a drain pipe and clambers up to the roof. It takes him seconds and doesn't even make him sweat. Nowadays, energy seems to come so easy. He has to go all out before he starts to feel that familiar burn in his muscles.

But then, that's not so rare. The city's a cruel mistress at the best of times. The dangers are constant. The gangs are unrelenting.

He thinks about finding a place to crash for the night. Sleep was a no-go when it was raining - too much chance that he'd get wet. His body doesn't react well to moisture. Now that the weather's cleared up, he might be able to catch a few hours some place dry. Zeke's isn't an option anymore. Things are too tense there for him to get any shuteye.

Instead, he's sleeping rough, any place he can find that's dry, elevated, isolated, where he isn't going to be found or disturbed. People would freak if they knew their big hero was actually a vagrant. He keeps his problems to himself.

Empire City's got enough of those right now.

He isn't given long to think about that nap he wants to take. He can already hear the miniature thunder cracks of a gun battle a block away.

He sighs, drawing back a hand and plunging his fist through the metal case of a nearby fuse box. He wraps his fingers around the cables inside. Sparks shoot out in all directions as a raging torrent of white lightning courses the length of his arm. It fills him. It revitalises him. The lights in the apartment block flicker and wink out.

He hates to leave people in the dark, but right now, he's got no choice. There's work to do and a hit from the mains is just what he needs before a firefight. It's no substitute for a good night's sleep, but it'll have to do.

After all, it's going to be a long night.

-x-x-x-x-x-


	2. Chapter One: Heal In Time

**Chapter One: Heal In Time**

Dawn breaks, clear and brisk. He doesn't get the chance to find a place to sleep. An E.P.D Sergeant from the Warren calls and tells him the Dust Men are tearing the place up looking for blast shards, eradiated metal fragments touched by the Ray Sphere's energy.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out they're using them to build more of their scrap metal dreadnoughts. Those things are getting real old, real fast.

He spends the few remaining hours before dawn hunting down the scavenger parties. By the time he gets back to the Neon, the sun's peering out over the horizon, ready to swamp the city with its first rays of light.

Fatigue's starting to creep in now, making his muscles heavy and his head swim. For a moment, he starts to long for that old, threadbare couch on Zeke's roof, with its pizza stains, coffee spills and electric discharge burns. He can't remember the last time he got more than a couple of hours sleep. All he knows is that it's been too long.

But he can hear the sound of voices in the street - raised, angry, urgent. He can feel synapses firing on overtime, a crackle of electric discharges. There's fury and fear heavy in the air.

It feels like trouble. Sleep's going to have to wait.

He looks out over the edge of the building. There's a crowd gathered below. Two men have another guy hanging by his feet from a rope wrapped around the top of a streetlight. There's another spewing out obscenities, firing up a crowd. Some people are just watching. Others are throwing rocks.

If there are any cops nearby, they aren't coming to help. It's up to him, as usual.

He jumps down, yanks his hood up over his head, and starts walking towards the gathering, hands plunged into his pockets, playing at stealth. Already, he can see the vacant, unseeing look in the victim's eyes. He's seen that look before. He can't hear what the agitator's saying yet, but he already knows what's going on.

"We need to show these sons of bitches that we're not going to be pushed around!" the rabble-rouser yells, slamming the metal pipe he's holding into the hanging man's stomach to a chorus of approval, "if the law isn't going to do anything about these assholes, we need to stand up and take responsibility! This is our city! We've got to keep our people safe! If we can't rely on anyone else then we need to rely on one another. This prick won't take anymore lives, and we're gonna be the ones who make sure of that!"

The accused man just hangs slack on his rope like some kind of living piñata. Black drool rolls down his face. He doesn't even seem to realise what's going on. A woman at the back of the crowd draws back her hand, clutching a rock about as big as her fist. A piece of rubble from one of the shattered buildings. Cole steps forward, catches her wrist. She looks back at him and he shakes his head. Slow. Deliberate. She drops the stone and backs away, before fleeing down the street.

Now he just has to deal with the rest of the mob.

"Let him down," he says.

The mob hears. They go quiet and turn to face him, parting to let him walk through their ranks. Some recognise him and slip away unnoticed. The others just watch him in silence.

"Who the...? Oh, it's you." The ringleader sizes him as he emerges into the middle of the circle. "Where the hell were you when this piece of trash firebombed that clinic in broad daylight? Killed a dozen patients, three doctors, and burned up a whole bunch of medical supplies to boot. Still think we should let him down?"

"I think you need to get out of my face, cut him down and let the cops deal with this. Or are you and me going to have a problem?"

"See?" The man ignores him, starts addressing his congregation. He's waving his weapon like a conductor's baton, playing the others like an orchestra. "This is what I'm talking about. We can't rely on this guy, or those pigs, to get justice. This is about us protecting ours."

Cole growls deep in the back of his throat. He wants to tell these people that the guy they're thinking of lynching is one of theirs. He's being controlled by Sasha and her mind-control tar. But that sounds crazy when he thinks it, let alone says it out loud.

"If you wanna kill this guy then you're gonna have to go through me first."

Some people in the crowd are smart enough to know that they're fighting a losing battle. Their leader doesn't seem so quick on the uptake. He's the man now, the one everyone's taking their cues from. He's drunk on the power and he doesn't want to give it up.

Cole's seen it a few times now. Ordinary losers, just like he was once, getting a taste of control and losing their minds with it. He's felt it too. He knows how hard it is to get a grip when you've got power that you didn't have before.

He also knows how dangerous it can be if you don't.

"Through you, huh?" he asks, fingers tightening around his length of pipe, "with fucking pleasure."

He swings for the fences, real homerun material, but Cole lifts a hand and catches it almost without trying. Then he pumps a few volts through it and it goes off like a cattle prod, knocking the guy clean out. Everyone gasps.

In one move, he kills the mob's fire. They start to disperse, heading home, wherever home is now. The two big guys drop the rope and their would-be victim hits the concrete, hard. He doesn't even seem to feel it.

No one tries to help the ringleader up. That's fine by Cole. Maybe waking up in the gutter will sober him, take him down a peg or two.

He waits until everyone moves on before he lets himself swear and clutch at his hand. He's strong, but even he has to admit that was a good swing.

"Come on," he says, hauling the tar-sick man up by his collar.

He stands for a moment, then slumps, feet giving out beneath him. His hands clutch at the front of Cole's jacket. Tears are streaming down his face, thick with tar, and he's sobbing and grunting nonsense. Then he vomits black all over his saviour's shoes and passes out.

Cole groans. He's had that crap on him before. In fact, he's been covered head-to-toe in the stuff on more than one occasion. He knows firsthand what it does. He's certain the only reason she didn't have him rampaging through the streets, throwing cars at pedestrians and blowing up police precincts is because of his own powers.

He's more than human now, in body and in mind.

But this isn't a new convert. Sasha pumps her victims so full of tar it spews out of them from every orifice. This guy's barely leaking it. That only means one thing. He's an ex-Reaper, one that the cops captured and hosed down.

Except that he isn't clean. Not really. And so she was able to make him pull a final, crazy stunt for her. One that cost the city three doctors and needed supplies. And fifteen people their lives.

He isn't happy, but the first thing he has to do is get this guy off the streets, before he hurts anyone else. Then, he's going to have a little talk with Harms.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Trish had never had many friends.

It hadn't been her fault. She'd been a great person. Funny and lively. Strong and compassionate. People couldn't help but like her.

But people didn't like Cole. Other than Zeke, and maybe Amy once they'd become close, no one got along well with him. That suited him fine. He'd never been interested in being everyone's friend.

But he felt sorry for Trish. She was a med school graduate. She could have done anything she'd wanted with her life. Instead, she'd stayed behind in Empire City, settled for being an E.M.T, so that they could be together. Everyone else she'd known from college had left to study abroad or got great jobs elsewhere in the country. She'd been stuck there, because of him.

She'd told him dozens of times she wouldn't have traded what they had for the world. She'd proved it dozens more. Opportunities came and went, and still she stayed with him. He'd never deserved a girl like that. He'd always hoped she'd never regret it, even with all she'd lost. All he'd ever wanted was to make her proud of him.

And with her last breath, she'd told him that she _was_ proud. It had brought tears to his eyes.

Kristen Daniels was the closest Trish had ever had to a real friend. They'd been to college together. Hell, their pictures had been next to one another in the hall of graduates at Empire University. That was, before the Ray Sphere turned it into a crater.

They hadn't been particularly close. They'd met for coffee every now and then. But what they'd lacked in affection, they made up for by agreeing on just about everything.

Before the disaster, Kris had been the head of a successful private practice in the Neon. Since then, she's been doing everything she can to help keep the city alive. She never turns a patient away and spends every spare moment researching the plague, looking for that cure the government failed to deliver. Trish's kind of people.

Kris and Cole had never seen eye to eye, but that didn't matter to him. She was one of the few who hadn't let that affect her friendship with Trish and he respected her for that. And she'd defended Cole at every opportunity when Trish had walked out on him.

Despite what she thought of him, she'd known that he was the good guy, the one trying to save the city. She might even have been the one that convinced Trish to take him back, and given them a couple more weeks together. For that, Cole doesn't think he can ever repay her.

And today's not the day he gets the chance to try.

He bursts in through the clinic's door, carrying the mob's tar-sick victim, to find the place noisy, crowded and reeking. Business as usual. Patients are lying on gurneys and litters. Others are propped up in chairs. Others still are curled up on sheets on the floor. The medics run from bed to bed, stepping over puddles of vomit, blood and other rank bodily fluids.

They've got them all here - plague victims, pedestrians wounded in gang attacks, car crash survivors. It's a sorry state of affairs, and it's the same the whole city over. Not enough doctors to tend the sick and wounded. Not enough supplies to stock the clinics.

No wonder the lynch mob went so crazy.

The place is so hectic no one even pays him any attention. He's got his hood pulled up anyway, just to be sure no one spots the city's hero running through the place with a Reaper in his arms.

He pushes past the plastic curtain that leads into the back room and sometimes operating theatre. Fortunately, there's no surgery going on right now. He sets the guy down on the floor and looks him over. He's still passed out, which makes things a little easier. If he'd had to listen to that babbling for another minute, he might have knocked him out himself.

Before he can think about what to do next, he hears raised voices in the next room. A team of medics in gore-streaked scrubs charge through the curtains, dragging a gurney between them. Kris rides atop, straddling the patient's torso, working oxygen into his lungs through a rubber bladder. The man's heart is limp in his chest, and a glimpse of the blisters on his arms and face tell Cole why. The plague is killing him.

Even as she dismounts, Kris is barking orders. Taking control like she was meant to. "I want those paddles charged. Get me epinephrine and keep that oxygen going."

One of the others takes the bag out of her hands and starts squeezing."We're losing him."

"No," she says, biting the cap off a syringe and plunging it into her patient's chest, "we're not. Not again."

"Still nothing."

Cole speaks up. He knows it's the best chance the dying man has. "Stand back."

The staff turn to look at him as he steps forward. Kris locks eyes with him, then shoos her team away. He flexes his fingers. Sparks flicker at their tips.

He presses his hands flat to a ribcage covered by thin skin. Sometimes he wonders if the people in this city are worth saving when all they have to live for is suffering. In the end, he knows it's not his choice. It's theirs. All he can do is the best he can. He has to leave the rest to them.

Energy pulses from his palms, rippling out through the body before him. It jerks, limbs flailing, and then falls back to the bed. He steps away as the medics crowd around again.

"Vitals steady. Looks like he might be back with us."

Kris nods. "All traces of the disease should be gone too. Cart him back through. I want him in observation until he's recovered. But he should be over the worst of it."

They do as she asks. Some of them stop to clap Cole on the back, shake his hand, or just say thanks. Then they wheel the stretcher away and leave him alone in the back room. Alone with Kris.

"First, I want to say thank you," she says, "that man would have died without your help. I appreciate what you did."

She snaps off her gloves and turns to wash her hands at the sink. There's something in the passive-aggressive way she strangles the soap that tells him he's not going to like where this conversation is headed.

"Now I want to know what you're doing here, and who the hell you've brought into my clinic."

"No one important."

She stoops to examine his patient. It takes her a second to find the watery black ooze seeping out of his mouth, nose and ears.

"Cole, is this man a Reaper?"

"Used to be." He scratches at the stubble on the back of his head, sheepish. "Still is until they clean him up right."

"I don't believe this. Of all the stupid, irresponsible..."

"What did you want me to do, Kris? Leave him out there in the street? They were gonna lynch him."

"How about taking him to the police?" she snaps. As usual, talking to him is making her temper flare. Same old shit. "Or anywhere else that isn't here. Jesus, Cole, I have innocent people here that need my attention. I can't be babysitting a felon."

"The nearest precinct's eight blocks from here. I can't cover that kind of distance carrying someone. I'd be a sitting duck for a Reaper attack. I just need to keep him off the street until I can get Harms to send someone to pick him up."

The sick man stirs in his sleep. The tar turns his dreams into hallucinogenic nightmares. His feet kick against the linoleum. His hands reach out for someone long gone. But it's all in vain. He can't run away, and he'll never hold her again. Cole knows that feeling.

"Joanne," he groans, between fits of wordless, terrified moaning, "Joanne, come back. Don't leave me."

"She really did a number on him, didn't she?" the doctor asks. She looks from him to the Reaper and then back, features softening, agitation crumbling. "When are you going to stop that woman?"

"Soon as I find her. Trust me, no one wants to kick her ass as bad as I do."

She sighs and runs a hand over her face. She can't ignore the man's suffering, no matter how much she wants to. She knows that he's innocent, that it's the work of the sickness clouding his thoughts and controlling his mind that's turned him into a killer.

Trish was the same. That's why he knows he can count on her.

"Make sure they send someone quick," she says, "if anyone finds out that I'm hiding a Reaper here, I'll have a mob banging on my door, and I won't be able to stand in their way. My patients come first."

"Thanks Kris."

He kneels down beside the man and places a hand to his chest. Another pulse of power, and he lashes him to the floor with crackling tethers. It's more for her peace of mind than because it's necessary. The man's unconscious, near comatose. Not even a threat.

She catches his eyes with her own as he rises to leave. "Don't make me regret this, Cole."

"I'll take care of it," he says, pulling his hood up over his head.

He sweeps aside the sheet and starts to walk back towards the front entrance.

But he doesn't even make it halfway through the clinic. He looks at the moaning mass of bedridden bodies and feels a pang of guilt. He'll regret leaving Kris that way. He knows it. She's one of the good guys, as dedicated to keeping Empire City alive as he and Harms are. And he's just left her with an even greater load to bear.

He figures he needs to make it up to her, do something to compensate and redress the balance. He promises himself, once he's done with Harms he'll go back and help out for awhile. He can't do much for the folks injured by the Reapers, but he can help the plague victims, at least. Ever since the blast, he's been able to heal the sickness with a touch.

He'll do what he can, at least until the city needs him again. He never gets the chance to play doctor for long. The gangs are never idle for long and there's always too much for him to do, too many things clamouring for his attention.

And yet, no matter how much he does, it never seems to be enough. All that power at his fingertips, and it never feels like he's making a difference.

He steps out onto the street. The stink of smoke and the trash piled in the gutters and smoke is a pleasant change from the cocktail of vomit, blood and antiseptic permeating the air inside.

His mind buzzes with questions for Harms. He wants to know where all the cops are. He wants to know why no one was there to break up that lynching. And why no one stopped the sick man from killing fifteen people.

Even as he looks to the rooftops, something else catches his attention. People are running, screaming, shouting warnings, fleeing from the direction of Archer Square. His question and answer session with the Warden gets put on the backburner. At least until he figures out what the hell's going on.

A guy in a baseball cap and hooded top shunts into him hard, too panicked to watch where he's going. It knocks Cole's hood back, but he's too focused on grabbing the man's arm and stopping him from landing on his face to notice.

"Hey! Let go!" He swats him away. Then he gets his first good look at the man he crashed into. His eyes go wide."Whoa, aren't you that … electric … guy? You are, aren't you? You're Cole MacGrath!"

"Yeah, that's me. What's the rush?"

"Huh?" he asks, stammering as he gets cut off in mid-ramble. He recovers fast. "There's a big fight over at Archer Square. Me and my bro went to a swap meet over there, see if we could trade some empty batteries for some drinking water. We were halfway through a negotiation, and next thing we knew some crazies come out swinging baseball bats and shit, just started laying into everyone they could get at. Me and Jack bailed, but it's a goddamn war zone over there, dude."

"Sounds like my kind of party," Cole says.

His eyes follow the line of fleeing bodies down the road towards the riot. He flexes his fingers, feeling static discharge prickle across their tips.

The other man looks at him like he's crazy and then keeps running. He wants to leave the heroics to the hero. That suits Cole fine. The less chance of collateral damage, the better. He's all for inspiring people to stand up for themselves, but if folks try what he does then they're gonna get themselves killed.

And when he lets loose on whichever psychos are causing this mess, he doesn't want any innocents caught in the crossfire.

He takes off at a sprint, back down the street, against the flow of people streaming away from the warzone. He jumps and lands on top of a phone booth at the side of the road. A second jump lands him on a scaffold running along the buildings lining the street.

There's a good four storeys between him and the rooftops, but he clears them in seconds. Most people don't notice him, but those that do forget what they're running from. Some even start to applaud.

The rooftops feel more comfortable. Less constricting. The city stretches out before him, and he feels like he can reach it all from up here. From this vantage point, he can see fires glowing and bodies colliding in the centre of Archer Square. He quickens his pace, flying across the rooftops.

Whatever's going on down there, and whoever started it, he's going to finish it.

-x-x-x-x-x-


	3. Chapter Two: Let's Start a Riot

**Chapter Two: Let's Start a Riot**

Archer Square is a war zone. People are fighting tooth and nail, punching and kicking, shooting and stabbing, bludgeoning and biting. It's brutal, ugly insanity. It isn't a squabble over resources or rights. They're trampling food and salvage underfoot, or using it as makeshift weapons.

A few cops try to maintain order, but they're outnumbered. Armoured driftwood in a sea of violence and mayhem, out of their depth, out of their league. Some are already on the ground. If someone doesn't help them soon, that's the way they'll stay.

Men are fighting with women. The young are fighting the elderly. All of them are beating the hell out of the cops. It's nothing but an all-out brawl. The crowd are frenzied. Crazy with bloodlust.

From his perch above the riot, Cole watches it all. These people aren't gang members. They're just ordinary folks who came looking to trade for food or water. He doesn't understand what's causing them all to act like this, but he doesn't stop to think about it. He leaps from the building.

No one sees him coming. They're all too caught up in the melee to notice. He plunges down into the centre of Archer Square and lands hard.

He rolls to his feet and then he's on the defensive, jostled by a dozen milling bodies. They all want a piece of him, and everyone else too. People fly at him one after another, a blur of wide eyes and screaming mouths, clenched fists and blunt objects. He slams a right hook into one man's face, only to take a metal pipe to the back. He lurches backwards, ramming his elbow into the jaw of his attacker.

A woman running at him with a two-by-four clenched in her hands takes a kick to the stomach and goes down cradling her gut. He doesn't feel good about it, but he can't afford to be a gentleman right now.

He takes down a half dozen crazies with a blast of electricity each. They slump to the floor, toppling like dominoes. They'll be lucky if they don't get trampled to death. Someone smashes a glass bottle over the back of his head. Broken shards cut into his scalp and shred his left ear. He spins and blasts the woman at point-blank range. She tumbles backwards into the three people behind her.

Another man charges him, roaring obscenities. Cole grabs him by a fistful of jacket and throws him over his head onto the concrete. He clamps his fingers around the guy's cranium and pumps electricity through it, knocking him out cold.

His fingers come away sticky, covered in the black tar that was stuck to his skin.

Now that he looks, he realises that it's everywhere, adhering to the flesh and clothing of every man and woman involved in the street fight. Some people have it streaked across their faces. Others are spewing it out of their mouths like black bile. Others still have their eyes gummed shut with it and fight on, blind.

And now he understands that it's the work of that mind-polluting crap that Sasha spews out. She's making these people destroy themselves, and each other. And he's going to need to stop them, for their own good.

But first he needs to get any cops he can find out of the firing line. He grabs a fallen man in a ripped tactical vest up off the ground, and drags him one-handed through the riot. Anyone who comes too close gets a blast of electricity to the head.

Even as he watches, a woman rips a guy's cheek off with her teeth. Blood sprays across her face. Another man picks up a railing spike and rams it through someone's back, before holding them up in the air like some kind of grisly flag.

A Molotov cocktail spins through the air, tumbling end over end above the crowd. He can only stare in horror as it comes down, bursting amid the mass of bodies. Glass and petrol spray in all directions and then the whole thing goes up.

A dozen rioters run thrashing out of the inferno and into the rest of the crowd, bodies wreathed in flame. The people they touch burn with them, clawed to the ground beneath living funeral pyres.

There's no reason behind it. No motive. No grievance. Just pure, unadulterated madness, driven by the tar that's seeped into their minds and taken over.

He looks away in disgust.

The guy he's dragging is out cold, but he can see a bunch of others perched atop the crippled monument at the centre of the square. They've got a dozen or so civilians with them, people who somehow managed to avoid getting soaked in tar like everyone else. He hauls the wounded man up onto his shoulder and starts to shin up a flagpole, kicking out at grasping hands as he rises above the chaos.

The other cops see him coming and move to help.

"This is insane," the closest of them, a Sergeant, shouts, struggling to be heard over the screaming below. His subordinates pull their colleague out of harm's way. "What the hell do we do?"

"You got any more men down there?"

His face turns grim. "None that are getting up."

"Then stay up here. I'm finishing this before anyone else gets killed."

He doesn't wait around to answer any questions. Before the cop can even think about asking any, he's climbing again. It takes him back to the first time he ever climbed that twisted piece of scrap metal they used to call "modern art". Back before the city was under quarantine. Before he and Trish were even serious.

He'd been free-running for a couple of years by then, and Zeke had dared him to put his skills to the test. He'd drawn quite a crowd, but he hadn't had his powers to fall back on in those days. He'd been so scared of falling that, by the time he'd gotten back onto solid ground, he'd just let the cops take him in, too relieved to complain.

Trish had bailed him out. She'd given him hell, yelled at him for two straight hours for being irresponsible. She'd told him that he had a "natural affinity" for what he'd only ever thought of as a hobby. She'd said he was squandering it by "jerking around". She'd wanted him to do something useful with it. The next week, he'd gotten a job as a courier.

His life's changed so much since then he can hardly believe it. Sometimes, remembering all that's happened, all he's lost, he doesn't want to believe it.

But burying his head in the sand won't help the people who are relying on him. He's got power crackling in every inch of his body and, like Trish said, he's got a responsibility to do something useful with it.

He reaches the very top of the monument and lifts his head to the sky. Its times like this, when he's up so high, when the faint electric current on the wind brushes his face, that he wishes he could fly. His powers aren't that advanced yet though. Hell, he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to do that.

Instead, he turns his attention down again. He clenches fists, letting electricity crackle around his hands, up his arms, along his legs, until his every cell is humming with charge. All the while, the insanity below rages on.

He knows this is going to take a lot out of him. But if he doesn't do something to end this riot, it's going to hurt a lot of innocent people. And since reasoning with them is out of the question, that leaves only one option. One sure fire way to put them all down and stop the madness.

He leaps out into the air. From this height, the fall won't even sting. But with the energy stored in his body, it's going to knock everyone below on their asses. The ground races up to meet him. The monument, with its flagpole sentries, passes like a blur. And then he hits the floor.

Concrete fractures beneath his feet. A tidal wave of glowing power rushes out from him, sweeping the crowd off their feet and throwing each and every one of them into the air. Bodies crackling with electricity hit the floor and fall limp, tar-addled minds shut down by the sudden shock to the system. In an instant, the fifty, maybe even a hundred, people rioting in Archer Square fall silent. The echoes of his landing ring through the streets like thunder.

The riot is officially over.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Cole stands up and straight away he pays for it. Electric drain hits him like the mother of all hangovers. His vision blurs. His head starts to pound. It feels like his brain's swelling up inside his skull, ready to burst. He needs a recharge, or he's not even going to be able to see straight, let alone walk.

He looks around for a power source. A streetlamp, an abandoned car, a homemade battery - anything he can use to restore his energy. The world seems to lurch with every movement he makes. Nausea swells in the pit of his stomach.

He finds one of the square's ornate lights. No easy feat given that tunnel vision's setting in. He focuses. Just trying to get one foot in front of the other. Just trying to concentrate on reaching his destination. He staggers up to his goal, places his hands on it, lets the cool metal beneath his fingertips ground him. The light's out. It's still daylight, after all. But there should be power running to it from the grid.

He finds the access panel at the base and tries to pry it off, but he can't get a grip on it. It's like he's wearing oven mitts. Instead, he draws his hand back, clenching a fist, and punches through the metal. He hits the circuit and white hot lightning shoots the length of his arm, pouring into his body and kick-starting it like a stubborn engine. His vision clears, sharpens. Every ache in his body disappears. Pretty soon, he's back to one hundred percent, almost like the riot never happened.

But it did happen. And there's a lot of injured people, and a few dead ones, to prove it.

He looks back over his shoulder and sees the cops helping the last of the civilians down to the ground. They all took a beating. He wishes more people could have been saved, but he knows they did the best they could. If they'd stood their ground, they'd have been killed too. If they'd opened fire, the body count would have been a whole lot higher.

He's still pissed at how few cops there seem to be here, knowing how often the Reapers attack this place. That's not their fault. It's just another issue he needs to raise with Harms.

He pushes himself back to his feet and walks over to join them under the monument. The Sergeant's already handing out orders to his remaining men.

"Jackson. Quaid. there's a crashed fire truck just outside the square. Grab a hose and get it hooked up to a hydrant. I want this black shit off these people before they wake up. The rest of you, get the dead laid out. We'll arrange a truck and a burial team later. Then, gather up everything that's still salvageable and divvy it out between the survivors."

The group splits to carry out the jobs assigned to them. The people they'd been protecting go with them, pitching in where they can. Cole approaches the leader, who's kneeling by the body of a downed officer, scribbling his badge number and surname into a leather pocketbook. There are at least a dozen other entries on the page. A list of the dead.

"If I have my way, these men will all get medals one day," he says, without looking up, "this country will know that they didn't give up on Empire City, even when everyone else did. Least they deserve."

"What the hell happened here?"

He pockets the journal and stands, turning to face Cole with a grim expression. "As far as I understand it, they were holding a swap meet here when a bunch of folks covered in tar came charging into the square," he explains, "by the time we got here, most of the people in the crowd were tearing into one another, like they were animals. The ones who didn't get covered in that crap were already up on top of the monument when we arrived. We thought we could take them, but they hammered us. And that was when you showed up."

"What do you mean, 'by the time we got here'? Isn't Archer Square a priority?"

"Normally, yeah, but we were all called away to secure the route for a prison convoy. They're moving a gang of Reaper Conduits up to Eagle Point from one of the local precincts."

"Why didn't anyone tell me about this?" Cole growls.

"The Warden gave operational control over to Captain Glass of Precinct Ten. He says the E.P.D got soft with you always around to wipe our asses for us, wanted to prove that we could stand on our own two feet, the way we used to before you showed up."

"That son of a bitch." His hands ball into fists. His jaw clenches. Sparks ignites in his eyes. Needless to say, he's not happy. "Firebombs, lynch mobs, riots, all in broad daylight, and not a cop in sight. All because this asshole decided he had something to prove."

"You don't know the half of it," the Sergeant says, features grim, "Harms just called. The riot was a feint. The Reapers used it to get us out of position so that they could hit the prison transport. Those Conduits are going to tear this district to pieces."

"That's just frigging great. Where?"

"Tenth and Lexi." Cole doesn't wait to hear anymore. He starts running. The cop's voice follows him down the street. "But you'll never make it in time. They'll be long gone."

"Don't count on it," he mutters to himself. He leaps up, bounces off the roof of an abandoned car and catches hold of a power line overhead.

In one smooth movement, he swings himself up onto the cable. The electrical field around his body crackles as it comes into contact with the live wire. Without moving his feet, he propels himself along, grinding like he's riding a skateboard along a rail. He gave up boarding for biking a long time ago, but the memory remains. His body feels so natural in that position, it's like he never stopped.

He can cover a block in a matter of seconds like this.

He just hopes that's fast enough to reach the corner of Tenth Street and Lexi Avenue before the cops guarding that convoy wind up dead.

-x-x-x-x-x-


	4. Chapter Three: The Problem With Reapers

**Chapter Three: The Problem with Reapers**

When he gets there, the prison transport's stopped in the middle of the road. There's a barricade of car wrecks stretching across the asphalt. It's the work of the Reapers. No doubt.

The front runner of the convoy, a battered police cruiser, took an R.P.G to the bonnet. It killed the cops inside on impact. The rest have formed up around the truck carrying the Conduits, using the remaining cars as cover. Dead bodies, gang members and officers, are strewn across the street. If Archer Square looked like a war zone, this place looks like hell.

He scrambles up the nearest building, a good few hundred metres from the showdown. Taking the rooftop path will let him flank the shooters gunning for the survivors. The first sniper doesn't even notice him until it's too late. Cole grabs him by the seat of his pants and throws him off the building. It's a two-storey drop to the terrace below, enough to take him out of the fight.

The second sees him from across the street and starts peppering the brickwork around him with machinegun fire. He draws back his hand, takes a deep breath, focuses. All of a sudden, it's like the world slows down around him. He's in the zone, for as long as he can control his breathing. The rattle of gunfire slows to a dull, disjointed thudding. He can see the bolt slamming back and forth on the Reaper's weapon, and the tar drooling out from under his hood. He throws his palm forward, and a bolt of energy lights the dark beneath the guy's shroud, sending him toppling backwards and out of sight behind the parapet.

He starts moving again, gaining ground on the bad guys and their prize. The next gunman sees him coming and turns to shoot. Cole grabs the barrel of his gun and force-feeds him the butt, shattering teeth. A supercharged punch to the gut doubles him over, and then a knee to the side of the head knocks him out.

Across the road, a group of Reapers are shooting at him, but it's not them he's worried about. At the centre of their ranks is a big guy carrying a rocket launcher, salvaged from a National Guard compound or something. They need to get the Conduits out alive, so he hasn't been allowed to use it since he crippled the first squad car, but now he's got a new target in mind. He pulls the heavy weapon up onto his shoulder and points it straight at Cole.

The rocket streaks towards him, a wake of fire and smoke chasing it as it closes the distance. He spins and throws his hands forward. A wave of force hits the projectile head on and knocks it off course. It flies up and away, wobbling like a firework out of control, and then hits the side of the building the gang members are standing on. Two of them get thrown across the rooftop like rag dolls by the explosion. The other three are flattened by a falling billboard.

By now, the cops defending the prison transport realise that they've got support and rally. They double their efforts against the remaining Reapers with renewed hope. He leaps down from his perch, the rush of the wind making his adrenaline spike as he plummets two floors. He catches hold of a streetlamp and swings himself up onto the roof of the unmarked van.

His hands flash. A lone gunman standing on the roof of an apartment block takes a shot to the gut and collapses out of view.

"Heard you boys could use some help," he says, hopping down to join them.

The nearest cop marches up to him, eyes narrowed behind his riot helmet. "What the hell are you doing here?"

It's not quite the welcome he was expecting, considering that these guys wouldn't have survived the next few minutes. Then he sees the name on the aggressor's jacket and he understands. His teeth clench and he grabs the man by his collar. He slams him against the side of the truck and lifts him off his feet.

"You're Glass? You're the piece of crap responsible for all this?"

"Get your goddamn hands off me, you clown," the Captain snaps, unrepentant, "or didn't you notice we're in the middle of a warzone right now?"

"You wanna see a warzone? How about going down to Archer Square? I don't know what your issues are, but if you've got a problem with me then say it to my face. Don't play around with people's lives."

"Reapers are coming," one of the other officers says, putting a hand on Cole's shoulder.

The younger cops are looking to him for orders. He never thought he'd see the day.

"This junk heap still mobile?" he asks them, slamming his palm on the side of the van.

"Hell no," another man says. His hand is clamped over a bloody wound in his shoulder. Now that he looks, every one of them is nursing a minor wound of some kind. "Reapers dumped scrap metal on the road, cut the tyres to shreds and busted up the axles. We'll need new wheels."

"City bus be okay?" he says, pointing out the rundown vehicle abandoned at the side of the street.

In truth, the thing's a death trap. The windows have all been shattered, and it's rusty as hell. It won't last the journey to Eagle Point, but it'll get them out of the meat grinder. And with Cole riding shotgun they stand as good a chance as any. With any luck, they can pick up something more suitable once they're through the worst of it.

The cops pop the locks on the van's rear doors and out jump the Conduits. Hunched figures in dirty, white hooded robes. Their shrouds are pulled down to reveal tar-slick faces, confused and terrified. They're in the worst stage. The tar doesn't control them anymore. They're on their own, facing the guilt of all the bad things they did, if they're even clear-headed enough to remember their own names.

But they can still hear Sasha's voice, whispering. They can hear her making those promises she likes to make - good, comforting, easy promises. Ones she's got no intention of keeping. They're at their most unpredictable, and dangerous, like this.

The team frogmarch them across the road and into the bus, seven in total. More than enough to bring anarchy to the streets of Empire City. Like they even needed to.

Captain Glass glares at him, and points out the barricade of cars still standing in their way. He doesn't say anything, but he gets his point across. His feelings too. Then he turns and marches after his men.

Harms is going to rip him a new asshole after this screw up, and he knows it. He'll be lucky if he gets operational control of the photocopier.

Cole sucks the empty van's battery dry on his way past and cracks his knuckles, stepping up to the blockade. He controls his breathing, focuses on channelling his power into his arms, and then throws a shockwave into the wrecks. It shunts the cars aside. One even goes tumbling down the empty street. Now there's more than enough room for the bus to pass.

He turns back to their newfound transport as the engine roars to life. It's spluttering like a dying man with throat cancer. Painful to listen to, but he knows they don't have a choice. It's this or walking.

"Let's move!" he barks, leaping up to take hold of the window beside the driver's seat.

One of the cops is lying dead on the steering wheel, throat slit. Behind him, a red-hooded Reaper looks up, blood glistening on the edge of his blade. His other hand comes up holding a sawn-off shotgun. The weapon barks. A fistful of buckshot hits him in the chest and throws him off the side of the bus, sending him skidding across the asphalt.

"Stupid, Cole. Real stupid," he grunts, brushing his fingers over the scrapes on the back of his skull.

He should have secured the bus before he let the cops anywhere near it. Instead he got them all killed. Nearly got himself killed to boot. If he hadn't managed to throw up his shield at the last moment, that blast would have ripped him in half. Now he just feels like he's taken a haymaker from a heavyweight champion.

He doesn't get time to beat himself up about it. Reapers come around both sides of the vehicle, jabbering and vomiting tar.

The first two take lightning bolts to the head and go down, convulsing and gurgling. A third gets hit in the stomach and slams backwards into the side of the rusted transport. He staggers forward into a rising uppercut to the jaw and then flops onto his face.

He rounds on the next guy and finds himself staring down the barrel of what looks like a flamethrower. For a moment, he's sure he's going to go from Electric Man to Human Torch. He thrusts his palm forward, a wall of crackling energy appearing in front of him. But when the brute pulls the trigger, it isn't fire that comes out. It's tar.

It sprays through his barrier. Too slow to be deflected. Too fast for him to dodge. It breaks over him like a wave, hitting his arm and then pouring over his head.

The spray drenches him from head-to-toe and he slumps to the ground hard. His legs turn to rubber beneath him. It's like electric drain in liquid form. Even though it's not in his eyes, his vision starts to blur and his brain begins to throb. Weakness, like exhaustion, settles over him. Every part of his body feels heavy, from his head to his arms to his legs. He tries to stand up, but his body isn't playing ball.

On the bright side, he's figured out what the hell happened in Archer Square. How so many people wound up crazy with tar sickness in such a short space of time - the Tar Cannon.

The big guy lets his experimental weapon hang from its strap around his neck, cracking his huge knuckles as he steps forward. Even weighed down by the two metal tanks lashed to his back, he seems more than confident. Cole slams a fist down against the concrete, dragging himself up off the floor. He's pushing with every fibre of his being to get back in the fight.

He climbs to his feet. The effort takes everything he's got, makes him feel like his head's going to split open, or drop off. It doesn't feel good - not one bit. But round two's starting, whether he likes it or not.

His opponent swings a fist in a clumsy hook. Cole ducks, still too fast for him, and fires back with a pair of hard punches to either side of his ribcage. The giant doesn't seem to notice and grabs him by the head, throwing him against the side of the bus. He slumps down, held up only by the fact that he's leaning against the vehicle.

He spits the tar off his lips. He tastes it, bitter and poisonous, on his tongue. He clamps his eyes shut, trying to focus, pushing whatever energy he can scrape together into his right arm.

The Reaper snatches a fistful of his jacket and jerks him around. And that's when Cole tags him with the energy grenade nestled in his palm. He takes one look at the glowing sphere stuck to his chest and then bolts across the street.

The bomb goes off with an actinic flash, tossing the guy's insensate body into the air. He slams onto the bonnet of an abandoned car and lies still. Residual electricity flows and gathers into restraints around his wrists and ankles, tethering him to the vehicle.

For a moment, Cole wonders why the hell the man tried to run away. He's about to put it down to the Reapers being Reapers when the bus pulls away with a hiss of hydraulics. And then it dawns on him. An explosion that close to the vehicle might have damaged the Conduits inside. Sasha had him carry the bomb away.

That's the problem with Reapers. You don't choose to join the gang. it chooses you. It kidnaps you off the streets, from your home, out of a hospital bed. Sticks you in a cage. Sprays you with tar. It gets in your head, confuses you, makes it so that you don't know what's what, then it makes you do things you don't want to do. Just like those people in Archer Square. It makes you steal, intimidate, rob, murder, even throw yourselves into a wall of machinegun fire, just to save better, more powerful, puppets, and then it leaves you to face the rap, alone.

No matter how much he wants to just blow this bus sky high and take them all out, he can't. They're not the guilty party. She is. They don't deserve to die, just because she turned them into mindless drones, outlets for her insanity. If it were the Dust Men, if it were the First Sons, he'd stick an energy grenade to the fuel tank and bail. But not the Reapers.

He shakes off the side-effects of the tar, slapping himself to bring his focus back. Then he leaps onto the back of the bus. He clambers up, and finds himself staring into the blacked out hoods of a dozen Reds, each of them toting assault rifle death. They've got the Conduits face-down on the floor, kneeling on their backs.

Sasha's so thoughtless, so insane. Her plans don't go beyond much more than doing as much damage as possible. But she wants those Whites. It goes to show how valuable they are that even a nut like her can see it.

He scrambles upwards, a string of curses slipping out between his blackened lips as he climbs onto the roof. A hail of gunfire follows him, punching holes in the metal beneath his feet. The bus lets out a screech of protest as the driver wrenches the wheel around, almost shaking him off. He drops down low, keeps his weight centred so that he doesn't fall. The passengers all stop shooting, shaken off balance by the jerk.

The front bumper collides with one of the cars he knocked aside. He realises that they're turning at the crossroads, rather than going straight ahead. It makes sense. Now they're heading away from Eagle Point.

It also means they're heading towards a dark zone. The electric drain back at Archer Square was bad. Being drenched in tar outright sucked. He knows it's going to be a hundred times worse if they drive him into that blackout.

He takes off at a run along the bus's roof. The driver hears him coming and stamps on the gas. The floor jerks out from under him. He slams down onto his belly, clinging to the buckled metal as the vehicle kicks forward. It starts to veer from left to right, yawing in every direction. The other Reapers can't get a clear shot at him, even though he's not moving, but they're spraying the roof with bullets anyway. Playing the odds. It's only a matter of time before one of them hits him.

He's starting to regret not taking out the tyres when he had the chance, but he doesn't trust his lightning to get the job done with the tar gluing everything up.

He looks ahead and sees what's coming. He's got a moment to brace himself, and then the bus rams a car wreck. He gets pitched off the roof and thrown into the street. His body hits the ground hard and then he tumbles across the concrete. The world turns into a riot of sickening, spinning colour.

For a moment, he can't move. Can't even breathe. The pain's too intense. He pushes himself into a crouch, spitting blood and tar out of his mouth. The vehicle's horn is blaring. When he looks over, he sees the driver slumped over the wheel, killed on impact. The collision threw him down the street. He's almost two hundred metres away now.

He can still see the other Reaper as it drags the body out of the driver's seat and slides in itself. The engine roars to life again.

Cole aims his hand at the front window as the bus starts to edge forward, pushing past the demolished Ford that's wrapped around its front bumper. He tries to summon a blast of electricity, but the energy fizzles at his fingertips. He's out of juice, or the tar's messing with his powers. Either way, he feels like shit.

And he's got no way to stop the bus as it races towards him.

He tries again. Sparks fly from his palm. He's got nothing. Nothing with any range, at least.

He waits until it's almost on top of him, and then jumps for the vehicle's front window. He wraps his arms around the steering column as his stomach and legs slam against the metal. It hurts like hell. If he'd been a normal human, it would have killed him. But even running on sparks, he can take a hell of a beating.

The Reaper seems to realise that and reaches for something by the seat. The same sawn-off that blasted him off the bus the first time. He thrusts his hand forward, catching hold of the man's tar-slick scalp. Energy pulses from his palm, frying the guy's brain and leaving him, slumped, unconscious, in his seat.

He looks back over his shoulder, at the road ahead, and he knows they've almost reached the dark zone. This street should be glowing with neon, even at this time of day, but instead the signs are blank, dull, devoid of power.

The moment they hit the point where this block ends and the next begins, he's going to pass out, get dragged under the bus, and the Reapers are going to get away. This is their turf, where the cops are too scared to go and he's too weak to fight.

He knows he has to end this now.

The other Reds in the bus are racing towards him, screeching and levelling their assault rifles. Before they can act he lunges forward, grabs the steering wheel and wrenches back on it, hard.

The bus takes a left turn so sharp that the whole vehicle flips onto its side. It skids along the ground, grinding up sparks from the asphalt with an ear-splitting screech. The gang members inside are thrown like rag dolls, bodies bouncing off seats and metal rails.

The vehicle slides to a halt. The Reapers start to climb out through the broken windows, dragging the Conduits with them. They're all nursing broken bones after that collision. But they aren't allowed to notice, aren't allowed to care about anything other than completing their mission.

Only the dead get to rest.

Coles lies in the gutter. The last time he was in pain like this, the Ray Sphere had just gone off. He was thrown clear when the bus went over, so he was spared the worst of it, but it carried him straight into the open maw of the dark zone.

Now the lack of electrical current is swallowing him whole, killing him. His body's falling apart, weakened by his injuries. Every muscle aches. Every bone feels shattered. His skin feels like its on fire from where the tar corrodes him.

The Reds ignore him. They retreat into the blackout with their prize in tow, as fast as their battered, broken bodies can carry them.

He lets out a weak grunt, trying to lift his head, and then passes out.

-x-x-x-x-x-


	5. Chapter Four: Wanted

**A/N:** A longer chapter this time. My favourite of the story thus far. This is where my backup ends, however. I can't put up another chapter until I finish writing one. Hope everyone enjoys it. Critique appreciated, but if not I still like to hear what you all thought.

**Chapter Four: Wanted**

"_Cole…"_

"Trish?"

"_Cole, wake up…"_

"What's going on?" he asks, opening blurry eyes to sterile white light.

"Oh god, Cole, I'm so glad you're awake," Trish says.

He turns his head toward her voice. As his vision clears, he sees that she's as beautiful as he remembers. Even with those dark bags under her eyes, even with her hair matted with dirt, she's still the best looking thing he's ever seen. He feels his heart lurch when he remembers that she died, and all of a sudden he doesn't know what to think.

He looks around, finds himself lying in a hospital bed, stripped to his boxers and t-shirt. He's about to ask her what the hell's going on when she throws her arms around him, hugging him tight.

There's no time to think. No time to apply logic. He wraps her up in an embrace, pulls her onto the bed with him and holds her as close as he can. Silent tears start to run down his cheeks as she puts her hand to the back of his head, a soothing caress to calm his anguish.

He remembers how her body felt against his, her smell, how smooth her skin always was because she never wore makeup - all the reasons he loved her. The moment seems so perfect. It's like she never left him.

"I was so worried," she says, her voice a whisper. He can hear the strain in her voice as she struggles not to cry. "I thought I was losing you."

He clings to her like he's drowning and she's his lifeline. "Don't worry. I'm here."

This is a dream. He knows it is. Trish died. He held her in his arms as the life fled out of her. He still remembers the words she said. Beautiful words that filled him with strength, empowered him to go on doing the right thing.

That doesn't mean he wants to wake up.

He wonders if maybe he's dying as well, lying on the side of the road at the edge of the dark zone. Beyond safety. Beyond help.

Maybe this is an illusion. Or a reunion, on the other side.

"Yeah, you are," she breathes, almost like she can't believe it. "I'm scared, Cole. I don't know what I'd do without you. You can't go back out there again. You're taking too many risks. You should stop this before you get hurt."

"This isn't about me, Trish." He doesn't want to argue with her. He's been without her so long. He knows she's just frightened for him, that she'll see sense. "This city needs me. You should understand that better than anyone."

"I need you. I know you don't want to admit it, but you're so much like this city. You put on a brave face and you fight, but deep inside you're hurting. Broken. They don't see it, but I do. You're not a lost cause, Cole, but this city is. I don't want to see it drag you down as well. Please, let's just go somewhere and forget about all this. If you won't do it for yourself then do it for me. I love you."

Cole's body goes stiff. He feels his chest tighten as she speaks, like his heart's breaking, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He knows that this isn't a dream, or any kind of reunion. He knows that he's not sitting in a hospital bed with a living Trish begging him to run away with her.

Even if he'd love to believe that she'd never died, there's one thing that he can't accept. One major thing wrong with this picture.

He grabs her around the wrists, forcing her away, eyes flashing as he glares up at her. She stares back at him, shocked, and then her features twist into an ugly sneer. She lunges for him, breaking his grip and cupping his face, bringing her mouth towards his. Black drool runs out over her lips, a malformed tongue flicking out, grey and gnarled, attempting to snare his own.

He throws her off the bed and she hits the wall. She slumps to the floor and buries her head in her hands. Then she starts to sob.

Guilt spears him in the guts. He wonders if maybe he was wrong. If there's still some after effect of the tar making him see things. He climbs off the bed and pads across the linoleum on bare feet. He reaches out to touch her shoulder.

And then the pitch of her weeping changes, rising into a chuckle, and from there into an insane, gleeful cackle. She swats his hand away, glaring up at him with eyes narrowed. Her cheeks are wet with tears. Black tears.

He recognises the expression. He recognises the laugh. And this time he gets angry.

He grabs her by the throat, hauling her up onto her feet and slamming her against the wall.

"What the hell's going on?"

The mirth vanishes. Now she's staring at him, her eyes cold and hard.

"Why won't you love me?"

Her face distorts, bones moving beneath her cheeks and chin. Her eyes fill with tar, turning black from corner to corner. It seeps out over the lids, thicker than tears. Almost like blood. Her soft, mousy hair falls out in thick clumps. The mask is gone, and all pretence with it. He's not dealing with Trish, or a sham version of her, anymore.

It's Sasha who's standing in front of him, still wearing Trish's clothes.

That just makes him angrier.

She brings her hand up, tracing the hard line of his jaw with her fingertips. Her touch is gentle. Affectionate. Loving. It disgusts him.

"Because you're not her."

"But I was."

"No," he says, "you weren't. Someone like you would never understand. You could never be her."

She smirks, running her fingers across his cheek. Then she sinks her nails into his flesh and rakes them down his face. He grunts - half-surprised, half-hurt - and then slams her hard against the wall. Electricity crackles in his free hand. A warning. She smiles.

"I always loved the way you hurt me, Kessler. So cold, so cruel, so brutal," she purrs. Her features turn hard again. Fury blazes in her dark eyes. "But when I looked under your skin, I always saw her. Festering like an open wound. All that rage, all that frustration. I thought it was me that made you so deliciously mad. You should have burned her out long ago. I'd have happily taken her place."

"You knew, didn't you?" he snarls, his grip tightening around her throat, "you knew we were the same person."

"Same memories, same thoughts." She brushes the blood from his face and smears it across her lips. The hand on her neck doesn't seem to bother her. "Same canker in your hearts. I meant what I told you, Cole. It was too late for Kessler, but there's still hope for you. I can help you to forget about her, if you help me forget about him. We can start again. We can have fun. I can give you everything you want."

"No," he says, mind filled with Trish, "you can't."

She narrows her eyes again. If looks could kill he'd be nursing a fatal head wound right about now. Then her expression softens. "Suit yourself, love."

She grabs him around the head, pulling him in so that her lips are over his ear. Her words come out in a breathy whisper, somewhere between seduction and a snarl. "Just remember, I'll be waiting. I'll always be here for you, and when the loneliness drives you insane, and it will, you'll come crawling back to me."

Part of him had liked that voice, the first time he'd heard it. He'd only just been coming to terms with his powers. Trish still hated his guts for what had happened to her sister. He'd been out of his depth, confused and alone, isolated, from her, from everyone. She spoke to him, played on his fears and hopes, his desperation.

The rest of him just rallied against her, hard. His loyalty to Trish, his desire to do the right thing, for her, for the city, had won out. They'd let him beat her.

Now, the way she speaks to him just makes him feel soiled.

She trails her tongue along his ear, and he grunts in disgust. A second later, she bites him, savaging his neck, tearing into it. He throws her off and shoots a lightning bolt into her leering, bloody face.

That's when the illusion gets even more surreal. She splits apart, his lightning blast punching a hole right through her. What's left of her lunges at him, transforming into the tar he knows and hates, and splashes down over him.

It fills his eyes, his ears, his mouth, his nostrils. Pretty soon, he's drowning in it. He staggers, clawing at the ooze sticking to his face, but he can't get it off.

The darkness swallows him and he falls, not to the floor, but into an abyss. An abyss that doesn't seem to have an end.

-x-x-x-x-x-

When reality hits, he knows it.

Everything hurts, from his pounding head down to his aching feet, from his pummelled ribs to his throbbing fingertips. He's so drained that he can barely move, barely see, barely hear. But by God he can feel.

He's lost that blissful painlessness he had in Sasha's delusion. Still, he'd rather this agony than her mind games any day.

He opens his eyes. The world's a blur. Buzzing invades his ears and he groans, wondering what the hell's going on. He hears voices talking. Two men are holding a muffled conversation in unfriendly tones. He strains to hear what they're saying.

"Shit, he's waking up."

"Do something about it."

"Like what? Tranquilisers won't work on the guy."

"Just move. I'll do it the old-fashioned way."

Cole forces himself to focus. He rolls onto his back, hands snapping up to catch the butt of the rifle aimed at his head. He stares up into gasmask features. Two red pinpoints of light stare back at him. The man swears, and then takes a hard kick to the stomach, which sends him flying backwards out of sight.

The room tilts without warning. He flies off the bed he was lying on, crashes into the floor and then hits the wall. He looks up and sees half a dozen others, all wearing the same outfit as the first. And all clinging for dear life to anything they can catch hold of.

Two men are sitting at the far end of what looks like the compartment in an aircraft. Through the front window, he can see Empire City stretching out below.

That's when he realises that the buzzing noise he can hear is the sound of helicopter rotors spinning.

He doesn't stick around to fight with the other passengers or even ask any questions. He just staggers to his feet, grabs the compartment door and throws it open. Everyone starts swearing as he stands on the treshold, a gale force wind hammering him from all directions at once. The urban sprawl of the city - his city - calls up to him.

It's a good fifty metres to the ground, twenty to the nearest rooftop. Even if he's not human, he's still covered in Sasha's tar. He's not at a hundred percent right now.

Still, when he thinks about it, it's better than staying here.

He bails out, the wind closing like a cyclone around him, jerking his arms up over his head. He braces. Then he hits the roof. Pain rockets up his legs, but the bones don't shatter. They just compact and make him wish he was dead.

He sprawls forward onto his face, cracking his jaw on the concrete. He bites through his tongue, swallows a couple of teeth and a mouthful of blood. He's trying to get his bearings when he hears something land hard behind him.

Now he knows he's in trouble. Real trouble.

Two more impacts. Enraged voices yell for him to stop. There's not a chance in hell. He takes off at a sprint, leaping to the next roof and clearing the gap by a good few feet. His pursuers give chase and they're matching stride with him, running as fast, jumping as far. Except that they don't have the tar and a whole heap of injuries to contend with.

They're going to catch him and he knows it.

He starts to get desperate. He fires off a blast as he's running across the roof of an old apartment building. It eats through the rust on the moorings of an old water tower. The heavy, iron drum pops its bolts and tumbles down behind him. It misses him by a hair's breadth as he leaps to the next building. He stops to look back at the damage and catch his breath. Right now, that oxygen he's sucking in is the finest thing he's ever tasted.

But the electric drain's still killing him and he's not close enough to a power source to recuperate.

The heap of scrap metal blows apart. And then the gasmask-wearing men are after him again. Black fatigues, body armour, assault rifles - these guys are soldiers. He doesn't know if what he just saw was a good, old-fashioned explosive, or if someone just fired off a powerful telekinetic blast. Either way, he doesn't intend to stick around and find out.

On any other day, he'd be the one picking the fight with troublemakers like this. But they seem fixated on him and not destroying Empire City like every other psycho in these parts. He figures the best thing to do is just keep their attention.

He's only just settled on that plan when they peel off and give up. He keeps running, wondering if they're trying to outmanoeuvre him. Maybe they think he'll slow down when he doesn't see anyone chasing him. Then he understands why they stop.

As he reaches the edge of the next rooftop, the air whips up around him. A second helicopter emerges from the gap between the buildings and rises to hover in front of him.

"Shit," he grunts.

It spins around, bearing its open compartment to him. His eyes widen when he sees the figure standing in the doorway. A woman. Tall, maybe taller than him. Lean, near-androgynous, but muscular. Her dark, shoulder-length hair whips around her features. She's wearing a dark blue three-piece - tie, trousers and jacket - with a white shirt. She holds out a gloved hand towards him, and the air distorts around the tips of her bare fingers. A wave of pure energy hits him like a sledgehammer and throws him backwards across the roof, where he slides into the concrete parapet.

He pushes himself up and groans. "Son of a..."

The woman jumps down onto the rooftop.

"Don't make this any harder than it needs to be, McGrath," she says, voice raised to be heard over the helicopter's engine.

"Listen, lady, I'm having a real bad day, so you'd better just back off and leave me the hell alone."

"Like it or not, you're coming with us." Her eyes glow. She's warning him. If he resists, she'll make him pay. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be."

"If you think I'm honestly gonna do this the easy way, then you don't know me too well."

He climbs to his feet and clenches fists around the sparks crackling in his fingertips. He blasts her with his right hand, then his left. Bolts of energy hit her full in the torso and ripple out across her body. She staggers like she's been hit, but then comes straight after him again. Smoke rises from the blackened material of her suit jacket.

His eyes widen. He's never seen anyone take two clean blasts and just walk them off like that. He throws his hands forward and sends a shockwave rippling towards her. She weathers the impact, letting it wash over and around her. She just keeps on coming.

He's struck by the wild idea that she's just trying to intimidate him. That she's not as invulnerable as she's making out. Maybe he can beat her if he just pushes her a little harder. He's sure that if he was a hundred percent, he'd have fried her and her buddies by now.

But nothing's going according to plan today.

He tries to hit her with another blast, but his powers fizzle out the moment they hit his fingertips. All he can manage is a prickle of static.

With no other option, he swings a vicious right hook at her head. She ducks and grabs him by a fistful of jacket. Then she kicks him in the stomach hard enough to make him retch. He rams his elbow into her chest and then drops into a sweep, kicking her feet out from under her. She hits the floor and a second later he's on top of her, one hand wrapped around her throat, the other channelling what little power he's got left. He turns his fingers into a tazer.

"Who the hell are you?"

By now, he knows that she's a Conduit. A powerful one at that. That doesn't narrow things down. There has to be hundreds of them in Empire City alone, their powers bloated and out of control thanks to the Ray Sphere.

The real tip-off comes in how she uses her powers. She's had training. That much is obvious. Combined with the suit, the helicopter and the team of soldiers, that suggests she's got some kind of organised support. He starts to wonder if maybe there's some official agency using Conduits that John and Moya forgot to tell him about. It wouldn't have been the first time either of them had left him in the dark.

She's not in the mood to talk. She plants her boot in his groin, knocks away his hold on her neck with a forearm blow to his wrist, and then catapults him over her head. He sails through the air, the world spinning, and then crashes to the floor. He struggles to his knees and takes a kick to the jaw for his troubles. The blow spins him around and almost knocks him back down. His face goes numb. He spits out a mouthful of blood and starts coughing.

The woman's hands grip his head. Her gloves are off, her bare palms clamped to his temples. A jolt of pain rockets through his brain and then everything goes black.

He doesn't even feel himself hit the ground.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The first thing Cole notices when he wakes up is the pain.

The second thing is that he isn't hurting as bad as he should be.

Wherever he is now, the air's humming with electrical current. His body's feeding on it, mending itself, growing stronger by the second. He's lying on padding, soft and smooth, smelling like sterility. Above him there's light, bright and colourless.

It feels like a hospital bed, but not any hospital in Empire City. No one's screaming or crying or groaning in pain. There's no underlying stink of blood or vomit.

That's when he remembers - the helicopter, the woman, the fight. His first thought is a laboratory, that he's locked up in some government installation waiting to be sliced open.

But he's not strapped down. Maybe he's wrong.

Leads trail from pads on his bare chest to a heart monitor standing beside the bed. He tears them off without noticing the way they cling to his skin. The machine starts to protest, confusing him for dead instead of just impatient. He reaches over and sucks the electricity out of it.

The hit makes him feel better. His bruises are fading and his cuts are sealing shut, turning into scars and vanishing. Pretty soon he'll be back to normal.

His cell's an odd one. The floor and ceiling are plain white, but the walls are metal and glass. It looks like some kind of observation room. There's a bunch of computer terminals and other devices in the chambers outside. Stuff that looks like it's jumped straight out of a science fiction film. The kind he and Zeke used to watch.

Other than the bed and the metal tray tables surrounding it, the room itself is empty. There's only one door, and he gets the impression that it's locked.

There's no sign of the tar on his skin, meaning someone's swabbed him off. A delicate operation considering his aversion to water. His clothes too. The pants he's wearing are clean and they've laid his jacket and t-shirt out on the table for him.

So, they kidnapped him, patched him up and washed him off. Then decided to do the same for his clothes. He's got to admit that kind of freaks him out.

He pushes himself off the bed and checks the door. He was right. It's not opening. He tries shorting out the locking mechanism with a burst of electricity, but it doesn't budge. They knew what to expect from him, and they've shielded their electronics to stop him tampering.

If he can't get out through the door then he'll try the window instead.

He draws his hands back, charging up a shockwave. The ceiling lights start to flicker and dim. Once he's built up enough power, he throws his palms forward. The blast crashes against the pane and then ricochets right back at him. It carries him off his feet, throws him over the bed and into the wall, along with everything in the room that isn't bolted down.

The lights shatter. Glass tears his arms as he brings them up over his head. Moments later, he's pelted with trays and metal tools that bruise and slice. Even so, he's lucky. The bed's fixed to the floor, so it doesn't wind up crushing him.

"You're a difficult man to find, Mister McGrath."

He recognises that voice. Its that same woman that he spoke to on the rooftops. The same one that beat the crap out of him. She's speaking through an intercom system wired into the walls.

He picks himself up off the floor, cursing under his breath. She's standing on the other side of the window with arms folded, watching him with cold, grey eyes. She looks the same as before, except that she's changed her jacket for one that doesn't have scorch marks on it.

In her right hand she's clutching a sheaf of printouts. His entire life compiled in one document, if he had to guess. She glances at it, almost like she's comparing it to the real thing.

"No fixed abode, no regular haunts, no friends to speak of." She reads it off like an accountant quoting numbers. His jaw clenches. "We were lucky to have found you at all. And so were you, frankly. You were in a bad way."

"Yeah, real lucky," he grunts.

He snatches up his t-shirt from the debris and slips it over his head. Then he walks over to her, until there's just a couple of feet of air, and the glass, between then.

"This may be hard for you to believe, but we aren't your enemy."

"Yeah?" He slams his palm on the window. She doesn't even flinch. "Don't know many people who'd consider this friendly."

"It's a necessary precaution. Doesn't this seem like a lot of effort if we were just going to kill you, Cole?"

"Kidnapping me seems like a lot of effort just for a chat."

"I needed you in a secure location. I also needed to make sure you weren't followed, bugged or otherwise compromised before you got here. The only way I could see to do that was to take control of the meeting from the beginning."

"Paranoid. Now I know you're a Fed'."

"Not quite." Her lips curl up in a thin smile. It's the first emotion she's shown since they met. "My name is Marlena Klein. And I am the leader of the First Sons."

He snorts. "Like hell. Those clowns are so disorganised now, I wonder if they even _have_ a leader. The right hand doesn't know what the left hand's doing, unless they're fighting each other. You honestly trying to tell me that you're the one _in charge _of those morons?"

"No. What I'm trying to tell you - if you'd lay off the attitude for a few seconds - is that I'm the leader of a faction that can help you bring order to this city. And considering what the Reapers did to you, I think you need all the help you can get."

He doesn't have any comeback to that. Instead, he just grunts and walks away. Her icy, colourless stare bores into the back of his head. He's grateful for the fact that they patched him up, but she's still part of what caused this. Kessler and his First Sons maimed this city, ended thousands of lives, and ruined hundreds of thousands more. They took everything away from him. His life. His friends. Trish.

But even as he turns his back on her, she keeps speaking.

"You might not believe this, but Kessler wasn't just some terrorist out to cause chaos. He had a plan. An important one. One that might just save the world one day. He trusted me enough to tell me his real reason behind coming to Empire City and _my _group are dedicated to continuing his work. But I can't do that without you. You were the key to all of this. You must have figured that out by now."

"He told you his _real _reason for coming here?" Cole asks. A sneer creeps across his features as he looks back. "What makes you so special?"

She glares. There's a deep, festering animosity in those eyes. Beneath all the pleasantries, beneath the pleas for his help, he realises that she despises him. She seems to like the idea of teaming up even less than he does. He starts to wonder what could have inspired that kind of hate.

And then she says something that answers all his questions, and wipes the smirk off his face.

"He was my father."

-x-x-x-x-x-


	6. Chapter Five: Like It or Not

**A/N:** Hooray, an update! Time to start working on the next one. Less action this chapter. More plot. Are things finally looking up for Cole? Or is this more than what it seems?

Thanks go to Notablewood, TheLionOfSorrow, Qqtt991, Trojan Prince, dragondancer123, Mirage Shade, vandanbanduu, Virgil H, and most of all, my darling girlfriend and beta, Shakahnna.

It's really great to get this support, and see so many InFamous fans around. This is easily my favourite game in a long, long while, and I'm glad it has such a following.

**Chapter Five: ****Like It or Not**

He paces. His reflection looks like a caged animal. He feels like it too. The woman watches him, unimpressed, not intimidated. He sizes her up, then slams his palms into the glass, breathing heavy.

It feels like the walls are closing in, the floor crumbling under his feet. He's losing his grip. What does this mean? Did Kessler ever intend for them to meet?

_Her mother. Who's her mother?_

He tries to play it cool. "You're Kessler's daughter?" And fails.

She sighs. "You have to understand that he wasn't a father to me in the way you might be familiar with. His relationship with my mother was largely political, mending the rifts in the First Sons after he assumed power."

Cole stifles a relieved sigh. If her mother was with the First Sons, then that means this isn't one of his girls from the future, the ones Kessler showed him with his dying breath. The ones who called Trish "mommy" and, now, won't ever exist. That makes him feel better. Not by much though.

But the thought of betraying Trish, of betraying her memory, makes him sick. Same as if Sasha had whispered her obscenities in his ear again.

What kind of man had he become in the future? Without her?

Could he become like that again?

"He started working with me as a student the moment I showed promise as a conduit," she says.

He doesn't doubt she's telling the truth, but she's holding back with her emotions. Kessler's indifference towards her had to have stung. But then, maybe that's just narcissism on his part.

"I've been his Lieutenant for ... some time now. I didn't always agree with his methods, but his goal was sound: protect the world from its enemies, no matter the cost."

Cole snorts. He knows all about Kessler's plan, or at least the finer points of it. But he figures she doesn't know that, so it's time to play dumb. "And I figure into that how?"

"He put all of his hope into you," she says, "you were his Messiah."

He snorts again, for effect. It works, because the girl's getting pissed.

"Kessler's gifts weren't just about manipulating the physical world. He was a seer. He foresaw a monster of unimaginable power rising from the crucible of a great tragedy. And he saw that you were the only person who stood a chance of defeating it."

"So he destroyed an entire _city_?"

It's not hard to sound incredulous. He still can't believe it. It gets even more unbelievable when he starts to think about _himself_ doing it.

"I told you, I didn't always agree with his methods." She snaps the words at him like a whip. Maybe she's more _his_ daughter than Kessler's after all. "He did what he thought was necessary, but you have to understand that he _saw _what the Beast could do. The fear those visions provoked is enough for me to appreciate how necessary his actions might have been."

Now he's getting into the questions he would have asked Kessler. If the guy had lived long enough. "If he's a 'seer', why didn't he just find the Beast and kill it? Why do any of this at all?"

"Can you protect everyone, Cole?" she asks, tilting her head, "with all your power, can you be there for every victim in Empire City? Or are you limited by time, energy, patience? Desire?"

"Go to hell. You think I don't want to help those people? Maybe it escaped your notice, but I'm alone out there."

Her head straightens. "Exactly. Kessler _couldn't _see the identity of the Beast. And for everything he changed to prepare you, there were unforeseen effects. Ripples that distorted the future. Alden. Sasha. The F.B.I's sudden interest in the Ray Sphere. Those things weren't within his power to see."

"But if Kessler's plan ended with me..." He pauses. Probably better not to remind her who killed her daddy. "If his plan ended with him dying, why didn't you clowns just pack up and leave town? You'd have made my life a whole lot simpler."

"Because you aren't ready," she tells him, with all the bluntness he's starting to expect from her, "you may have been strong enough to defeat Kessler, but even_ he_ didn't believe he was strong enough to fight the Beast. He wasn't your test. The real test was whether you would do what needed to be done to save the world."

He thinks about it. What had Kessler wanted from him? Power? Ruthlessness? What had he wanted him to do?

_I'm disappointed in you, Cole..._

"Activate the Ray Sphere?"

She nods. "And you failed. Not only that, but you destroyed the only prototype in existence."

"Don't put this on me," he growls.

"It is on you. Like it or not. Thanks to you, the surest, fastest way to increase your power to a level matching the Beast is a smear of radiation over the waterfront."

She matches his stare. He wonders if she suspects for even a second that the man she's butting heads with is the same one who groomed her for this duty. The same man who wanted the Ray Sphere to be activated again.

Sometimes, when he starts to think he and Kessler might have been on the same page, he remembers the Sphere, and the blast, and Trish, and realises there's no way they ever were.

"You guys didn't have blueprints? Copies? Doesn't sound like Kessler to be so careless."

She doesn't answer for a few moments. Then she closes her eyes and pinches at the bridge of her nose. "Sasha burned the laboratories and all the research data when she escaped."

"Sounds like _you_ dropped the ball on that one."

She ignores him. He doesn't tell her about John's Dead Drops. For all he knows, those things have Ray Sphere blueprints all over them, encoded in the voice messages. And he's not about to let anyone, especially the First Sons, get their hands on them. Allies or not.

"We don't have a choice. If one of us can't be strong enough to defeat this enemy, many of us will have to suffice. We're willing to lay down our lives for this cause. What about you?"

"Listen, lady," he grunts, banging his fist on the window. Electricity crackles across the glass. "Kessler took _everything_ from me. The only thing I've got left are these powers. I've got nothing to lose. But I've got a price."

She sizes him up, debating whether he'll be worth this price before she hears it. It only takes her a moment to decide. "Name it."

He leans towards her, glaring. "You're gonna help me fix this city."

-x-x-x-x-x-

"We can help you," Marlena says, leading him through the corridors of their installation, "but even with our help, you have a fight ahead of you."

He nods. "I've been fighting since day one. I'm ready."

The tough guy routine's starting to wear a little thin, but he's not about to let his guard down. They might have agreed to help him, even let him out of his cell, but that doesn't mean they're friends. For all he knows, this is just another con.

He doesn't have all the answers yet. He never did. But he knows what his guts are telling him. Don't trust anybody. Not anymore.

Still, if anyone's equipped to help him put this city back together, it's these guys. Techs, doctors and soldiers in those familiar overalls have been marching past them since they left the holding cell. He's seen labs and armouries and mess halls and dormitories. They seem like a pretty organised operation, with staff and equipment to spare.

Part of him's annoyed. These guys, living in a bunker underground, away from the squalor and desperation, with enough food and water and meds for everyone here and more? There are people up top who'd trade body parts for those things.

First order of business is going to be teaching them the value of sharing.

"Of the First Sons, only fifty percent of our current number are loyal to me. The others separated into different camps when Kessler died. Political rivals who'd been waiting for years to strike, mostly, though a couple of new idealists emerged. The Reapers and Dustmen alone outnumber us. That's not taking into account other gangs that have formed in the aftermath of the blast."

"I'm used to it."

"We're also not a peace-keeping force. We were trained for special operations. Stealth and secrecy. Not pitched battles."

"Then we take the Conduits and leaders out of play and leave the rest for the cops."

"If you think we can rely on them."

"What do you think I've been doing for the last month and a half?"

She nods. At least she seems to appreciate that it's not been a walk in the park for him thus far. He still gets the feeling it's going to be an uphill struggle convincing them to do anything for this city. But if she's serious about them teaming up, and opposing Kessler's methods, then she should be more than willing to try.

The real trick's going to be figuring out how to make a real impact. If he's going to turn Empire City around, then he needs to do something big.

"Our first objective should be Sasha," Marlena says.

The way she says the name, it's like there's history there. But then, she's talking about the woman who was screwing around with her dad. Probably didn't make too much of a secret of it either. That's got to make for one hell of a grudge.

"Fine," he says, "but she's just one part of the bigger picture. Even without the gangs, they're still dealing with food shortages, low medical supplies and the plague."

She's silent for a few moments. Then she says something that makes his blood start to boil. "He called it the Blackout. All electrical impulses in the human body start to experience disturbances, beginning with muscle spasms and mental ticks, eventually leading to massive organ failure and death. He designed it with you in mind, Cole."

"Kessler?" he growls, grinding to a halt, "_designed_ it? What the hell are you talking about?"

She stops and looks back at him. "The Blackout is an artificial pathogen we released in the city at the time of the blast. The quarantine was supposed to stop you from leaving. At the same time, it was supposed to help you develop greater control of your powers. I'd say it was successful."

He marches up to her, looks her square in the face. She doesn't even flinch. "When were you going to tell me about this?"

"When you asked. I figured it was just a matter of time. It's one of your biggest obstacles to putting this city back together. And knowing we were responsible won't help you. Your power is the only cure."

She folds her arms over her chest, lips pursing like she's debating going for round two. Let her try it. He's recharged now, and he doesn't have time for bullshit.

"If you think Kessler waited for _my_ approval, then you need to think again."

"You're going to figure out a way to put this right," he snarls.

"Like I said. Your power is the only cure. So unless you want us to round up the victims so you can apply that healing touch of yours or..."

She trails off, brow creasing. He knows that look. Usually it only ever means bad news, someone realising something that changes the game, and not for the better.

"Or...?"

"If we can amplify that touch to cover the entire city, we could wipe out the Blackout altogether. That'd be a feat of logistics beyond us, if we had to build the amplifier ourselves. But the Dustmen already built one that would suit our purposes."

For a moment, it sounds like she isn't going to deliver on that bad news. And then she hits him with that last sentence. "Tent City? That place is the most heavily fortified area in Empire these days. You think they'll just let us in if we knock?"

"I told you this was going to be an uphill battle, Cole. But if we can penetrate their defences long enough to recalibrate the tower, we could end the plague overnight."

He's got to admit, the thought of that makes him smile, although it doesn't touch his lips. A way to make a difference that the city can actually feel? That's worth its weight in gold. He doesn't know why, but he thinks of Trish.

Even if he can't see any way around the Dustmen's defences, he's willing to do whatever it takes.

"Think your people could do it?" he asks.

The corridor ends in a hexagonal metal door with the words "Marshalling Bay" stencilled on it. As they approach, Marlena gestures at it and it grinds open right before his eyes. A door on a telekinetic lock.

Inside, there's a half dozen helicopters standing in a line. Tank-like vehicles - matt black with treads and thick armour plating - are arrayed opposite them. Men in overalls are running back and forth, carrying equipment, spare tyres and drums of fuel. He can see some moving things without touching them.

By the APC's stands a group wearing the familiar tactical gear, masks and heavy cylinders of the First Sons, like the guys who'd tried to bring him in. He can't tell if any of them were on that chopper, but the only one unmasked is glaring at him.

"Why don't you ask them yourself?"

-x-x-x-x-x-

"Ten hut!"

The unmasked soldier snaps to attention and the rest follow suit, dropping everything to turn and face their leader. The other workers start looking over, curious. He's not sure how much they've heard about him, considering how insular this place seems, but he definitely seems to be a topic of speculation.

"At ease," Marlena says, adjusting her gloves as they draw level with the team.

They shuffle their feet out, standing in a loose semi-circle around them. The guy without the mask, maybe the sergeant, just keeps on glaring. He's a big guy, even without the added padding of his uniform, with dark skin and a shaved head. Unlike Cole, who's getting close to having hair again, he's clean-shaven.

"Cole, this is Bishop," she says, "he's my second in command, and one of our strongest conduits. If we launch an assault on Tent City, he'll be leading the charge."

"Cole McGrath." The man in question grins and steps forward, hand outstretched. There's a hardness to his eyes that suggests he's feeling anything but friendly. Cole takes his hand and they wrestle for a moment. The guy's got a grip like a vice, but he can give as good as he gets. "Never thought we'd meet face-to-face. Always kind of hoped it'd be under different circumstances. You've sent a lot of my men home in body bags."

"The people they killed are probably still lying in the street right now."

He doesn't answer. They release one another and he steps back into line, still grinning. But that expression never touches his eyes. Some of the nearby engineers start watching the show, but Cole knows it's already over. Marlena won't let the first punch fall.

"Much as I'd love to referee for the two of you, I'm afraid it's going to have to wait," she says, "looks like this alliance is going to endure a trial by fire. I've been informed that those conduits you failed to apprehend are on the rampage. And Sasha is with them."

"She's outside? In daylight?"

She nods. "This could be our chance."

"Hey, wait. What do you mean _informed_?"

As far as he can see, she's not wearing a radio, and no one spoke to her while he was confronting Bishop. She just smiles and taps her temple.

"Just one of the things you'll be learning while you're with us, Cole. Internals Comms."

"Right."

He doesn't tell her he'd rather rely on his cell. The idea of opening his mind, especially to her, doesn't seem like a good one. Kessler's deepest secrets don't seem to be common knowledge around here, and he wants to keep it that way.

The team starts to file into one of the parked APC's, grabbing up equipment as they enter. He kind of wonders why he's never seen this stuff before, but it occurs to him that Kessler was always the man with the plan. He didn't just die without leaving instructions. He had a contingency. One he was holding back for when it was needed.

Or maybe this was all prepared for the Beast. In case Cole failed. And his refusal to activate the Ray Sphere has forced their hand.

_I don't regret it. That thing needed to be destroyed._

Bishop stops him on the tank's ramp. This time, he's not grinning, with his eyes or his mouth. He pushes his face into Cole's. The urge to stick a lightning bolt up his ass has never been stronger.

"Like it or not," he says, "you're one of us now."

-x-x-x-x-x-


	7. Chapter Six: We Were Meant For More

**A/N:** So, I've been getting a really positive reception for this story of late (and a whole load of hits), which means that InFamous 2 has hit the shelves. For the record, I'm not playing InFamous 2 yet, and I probably won't for a while. I'm not really excited about it, since InFamous is my favourite game and as far as I can see, the only way the quality can go after that is down. So I'm waiting to get it for cheaper.

This story is essentially an AU InFamous 2. What the sequel would have been like if it had followed the thread of the original instead of doing something completely different. I hope all the new fans will find it as interesting as the new game itself. I had a lot of ideas before InFamous 2 was even announced and I do plan to write them all up regardless. I hope the discrepancies don't put anyone off. Enjoy!

**Chapter Six: ****We Were Meant For More**

The APC rumbles through Empire's stricken streets, tank treads grinding shattered asphalt and shunting crippled cars out of the way. Bishop pulls on his gasmask and then it's just Cole and Marlena alone with a troop of anonymous First Son grunts.

He stands at the ramp, back to the corner, arms folded across his chest, and glares at the unblinking eyes with their infra-red pupils and wide, air-filter mouths. They glare back. He's never endured a ride this uncomfortable before.

"We take her alive," Marlena says, breaking the tension with a directness he's starting to suspect is typical of her, "if possible. Dead? Just as good."

"That okay with you, panty waist?" Bishop grumbles. The mask gives his voice a tinny, muffled quality.

"Fine." He nods. The other troopers seem satisfied, until he speaks again. "But the Reapers are off limits."

They aren't happy. There's a mutter of dissent. Their boss flattens it.

"If that's the way Cole wants it," she says, "I assume he's got a good reason."

"Reapers aren't the bad guys. Sasha's the puppet master. We take her out, and they won't be a problem anymore. They go back to being normal people again."

"Assuming the psychic feedback from her death doesn't fry 'em all."

The soldiers turn as one to stare at the man who spoke. He holds his hands up, trying to pacify them. He realises too late what he's done.

"We take Sasha alive then. No one's dying on my watch. Not if I can help it."

"What if you _can't_ help it?" another of the nameless men asks. There's a threat in those words.

Cole's eyes flicker. A spark dances between his fingers. Gloved hands clasp assault rifles that little bit tighter.

"We're doing this Cole's way, gentlemen," Marlena says, "we need him, as much as he needs us. Understand?"

The men agree, half-hearted. It occurs to him that an order to use non-lethal force has to be a shock to the system for these guys. The only person he's ever seen them take alive was Sasha, and that was a target of opportunity. On any other day, they'd suppress these Reapers with ruthless efficiency and then slip away into the shadows again. He'd show up a few minutes too late, find a whole platoon of corpses in red hoods, all of them headshot. That's the way the First Sons work.

On any other day.

He hears voices from the cab, men shouting about something in the road. Something hits the APC like a wave, tossing the front end into the air. The troops are jolted in their seats. Cole feels himself compacted against the rear door. Marlena drops onto her back and skids down towards him, grabbing one man's boot to stop herself halfway.

And then the vehicle crashes back down onto its treads with a shriek of twisting metal. The front end has crumpled like a tin can, crushing the driver and the guy riding shotgun into paste.

It takes Bishop a second to unbuckle and take charge.

"Time to move!" he yells, and punches a button next to the ramp.

Cole only gets a second's grace to realise that the wall behind him is falling away. Then he's tumbling down the ramp to the concrete below. The First Sons surge onto the street, just as a figure in a dirty white robe leaps onto their transport with enough force to cripple the roof.

The soldiers sling their rifles and draw telescopic batons from their belts, snapping them out with a collective flick of the wrist.

Marlena throws her palm at the Conduit and a fist of telekinetic energy punches it clean off the APC's roof. It tumbles along the shattered street, and a pair of her men go racing after it.

"This is the place," she says, turning to the others, "fan out. I want the Conduits contained. Jensen: call for another transport. Get them to wait outside the target area until we confirm that Sasha is in our custody. Bishop, Cole: you're with me."

Cole shrugs. "Whatever you say."

-x-x-x-x-x-

They hustle down a side street, the others in the unit breaking off in pairs to find the Whites. He can feel them, every powerful surge of energy as they use their powers to tear up the city. God only knows what's got Sasha so riled up. Maybe she's celebrating getting her Conduits back. Or maybe she's pissed because he rejected her.

He figures she should be used to it by now.

A Reaper winks into existence in the alleyway, tar sticking its hood tight to its skull and skinny arms. It bellows through a mouthful of black, vomiting it down its front, and then throws its hands up. Stick-thin fingers, like bones wrapped in skin, dance around the power captive in its palms.

"Ah, shit!"

It's all he has time to say before the world explodes. The surge of power rushes at him like a hurricane, ripping apart the ground, shredding the concrete off the walls and reducing them to bare, grey cinderblock.

He jumps, desperate, and kicks off from the wall, throwing himself over the shockwave. He crashes chest-first into a fire escape rail and locks his hands around it.

Down below, he sees Bishop rising from behind a crippled dumpster.

Marlena drops from the ladder she was clinging to and slams the Conduit into a wall with a snap of her wrist. Its skull bounces against the brick, and then Bishop appears next to it, clearing the distance in a blink. He grabs it by the throat and sweeps its legs with his baton, before throwing it to the ground hard enough to make Cole wince.

He drops down as Marlena clamps her hands against the White's head and knocks it clean out with a pulse of energy.

"Seems like that psycho bitch is going all out," Bishop grunts.

"I'm not seeing anything out of the ordinary just yet. You said Sasha was above ground?"

"Doesn't fit with her usual pattern, I know," Marlena says, "it could mean anything. Or it could mean nothing. She's insane. You know that already."

"Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know."

-x-x-x-x-x-

He knows they're getting close when he ducks out of an alley and a car tumbles past, bouncing on its rear bumper and then flattening a bus shelter at the roadside. He can see cops in riot gear sheltering behind patrol cars, shooting at red and white-clad shapes.

"Let's go," he says, and then sprints into the open, letting the other two follow at their own pace.

He races past a pair of patrolmen taking shots at a squad of Reds. Sasha's puppets are jabbering and shooting their guns at everything - the air, the floor, the cops and their car. He uses the bonnet as a springboard and falls into the middle of the Reapers, fist outstretched.

One of them takes his knuckles on the jaw and crumples to the floor. He kicks out behind him and catches a second in the lower back, throwing him face-first into the door of the car. A third swings for him with its gun and he grabs it, dragging it into a boot to the gut that drops it, spewing tar, to the asphalt.

The last charges him with the kind of fearlessness that only Sasha can give. He blasts it right between the eyes with a bolt of lightning and watches as it crashes to the floor, skidding to a stop at his feet.

He hasn't even started looking for more trouble when a Conduit appears in front of him, charging a blast between its hands.

He throws himself out of the way, feeling the wave miss him by inches. It uproots a street lamp and then blows the glass out of a shop front. One of the only shops that still had its front window, probably because no one wanted to loot a florist.

Cole rolls to his feet and the White turns into a streak in the air. He wills a charge into his arm until he's buzzing from shoulder to fingertips. A mass of crackling power appears in his hand.

A second later, the Conduit reappears behind him. He whips around and sticks the grenade to its chest. And then it disappears again.

It flickers back into sight on the roof of another crashed car, with the bomb still glowing on its front.

Cole shakes his head and turns away. "Man, you guys are dumb."

An actinic flash tells him all he needs to know. One less White to worry about.

"Cole!" Marlena shouts. He only has time to look over and see a Chevy tumbling towards him, feet away from flattening him like a bug.

A shockwave throws it away before it hits him. But it's nothing to do with him. When he looks over, he sees her standing with arms outstretched. She nods at him, and he nods back.

For now, the alliance is holding.

He sees a cluster of Reds under attack by half a dozen cops. A pair of Whites are already under control, masked soldiers holding them pinned to the ground. One of his new allies is wrestling another to the floor without touching him, crushing him into submission with pure telekinesis. It looks like Bishop, though it's hard to tell with them all wearing those same masks.

"Where the hell is she?" he hears Marlena saying.

He's been wondering the same thing himself. Where _is _Sasha?

-x-x-x-x-x-

"You got played," Cole says, "it happens. Welcome to the human race."

What he's saying doesn't seem to help. If anything it just pisses her off more. But she'd been staring at the wall for almost ten minutes. He figured he had to say something.

It seems he's about as much a father figure as Kessler.

They left the Reds for the EPD to pick up and bundled the Conduits into a van for what Marlena called "processing". The cops never turned their backs on the First Sons. Apparently, he's not the only getting used to the idea of them being good guys.

"Sasha showed up three years before the operation here in Empire began," she says. She's keeping her voice low so that the others can't hear, and he has to strain to listen over the APC's engine noise. "She was peddling some kind of mind control agent. I could tell she was no good. She was one of those women. Real queen bee complex. She wanted to be the one running everything. The moment she found out that Kessler was in charge, she latched onto him. I never saw them apart."

"Must have been hard."

She shakes her head. "Not because he was my father. Because he was my leader. I didn't want to think of him being taken in by that bitch. Part of me even suspected she'd drugged him, like one of her lab monkeys. I remember thinking, if he was being controlled by that woman, I wouldn't follow him anymore."

"So, what happened?"

"He was with her for three years, until I didn't think I could stand it anymore, and then he just ... kicked her out. Out of the First Sons. Out of his life. I never saw her again until that day I found her in a holding cell at the base."

"Sounds like he got a kick out of toying with people."

"I'm still not too sure why he did what he did. But I learned a lesson from it: Trust Kessler. He knows what he's doing. Even now I think the reason he had her thrown out of the organisation and not liquidated is because he knew how useful she'd be to help you grow stronger."

"Hope you're not expecting me to be grateful."

"I'm not. But I was hoping you'd understand where I was coming from. To Kessler, Sasha was a mild irritation, even when she was attacking our operations directly. She was never where his focus lay, until that day you tried to take her on. The important thing was always protecting you, helping you, strengthening you. That's why, ultimately, what happened today doesn't matter. We might not have caught Sasha, but that was never the mission he gave us anyway."

"So you're telling me you're okay with the idea of her living to see another sunrise?"

Marlena smiles at him, but he doubts if she thinks anything's funny. That expression might be the least good-humoured thing he's ever seen. Odd, because it's right up there with Sasha's maniac grin.

"I didn't say that," she says, "much as I know we still have everything to play for, I hate to lose."

-x-x-x-x-x-

"So what's the plan for hitting Tent City?"

They disembark from the APC at the head of the group. Marlena leads him past the inbound pit crew. She's so keyed up he can barely keep stride with her.

"Sasha's little diversion might work in our favour. If Alden thinks we're targetting her, he might not expect us to launch a full scale attack so soon."

Cole nods, but he's not so sure. Part of him's sure that paranoid, old geezer always expects a full scale attack. If they're going to take on the Dustmen, they need to be ready for a war.

"Tonight might be our best option. I've had operatives scouting the area around the tower for the best approach vector. I dispatched them before we left."

It sounds like she's really trying to do things his way. He guesses maybe she was for real when she said they needed him. Either way, he appreciates it. He'd been running out of options less than twenty four hours ago.

Now, he's ready to take on the world again. He has purpose. He knows what he's doing.

"We should have a plan hammered out by nightfall. They'll check you over at the infirmary if you need it."

He's about to say thanks when a trolley laden with tools skids across his path. He crashes into it. Tools and car parts clatter to the floor. He turns, jaw clenching.

The soldiers are laughing at him. All except Bishop.

"We used to respect ourselves," he says, jabbing a finger at Cole, "then he shows up and now we're all his goddamn sidekicks? That all we're good for now? You guys forget who you are? What you stand for?"

Marlena growls. "Bishop."

He rounds on her. "This how your daddy would have wanted it? Think he'd be proud to see you now, taking orders from thisguy so he can run around the city playing hero?"

"What _do _you stand for, Bishop?" Cole asks, "far as I can tell, all the First Sons have caused is pain in this city. You think that's noble?"

His gas mask's already gone. He unbuckles his gloves and throws those off too. "I ain't never claimed to be noble. But I'm better than playing babysitter for a bunch of civvies."

"Don't push me, man."

The laughter, the smiles, the amusement. It's all gone now. The rest of the team seem to have realised that neither of them are playing. They're watching, features taut, brows furrowed. Even Marlena's holding her breath, just waiting to see how this goes down.

Cole flexes his fingers. Sparks flicker. Bishop clenches fists.

They lunge in unison. Bishop's right hook misses him by inches. He grabs a fistful of tactical vest and hammers him in the gut. Then, a hard boot to the ribs sends him skidding backward and into the trolley again.

He comes back swinging, rocking Bishop's head left then right with blows to the jaw. The guy towers over him, a foot taller at least, and maybe broader by the same. But it doesn't matter, because Conduits are a different ball game altogether.

This time, it's Bishop who grabs his jacket. He jerks him forward into a knee to the stomach. Then, he locks his hands around Cole's midsection and flips him head over heels. The landing knocks the wind right out of him.

Bishop grabs him by the collar and rears back, fist chambered and aimed right at his nose. Cole's hand snaps up and catches it, stopping it dead. His other hand slams a lightning bolt hard into his chest and throws him into a stack of metal crates that collapses under the impact.

He forces himself up. The other soldiers don't try to help. There's an unspoken pact here. Bishop's on his own, for now at least. That's good news for Cole.

But the rules are changing. With a flick of his wrist, Bishop snaps out his baton. His lips peel back, baring teeth slick with blood.

Cole just grins. "You asked for it."

He clenches fists, pushing pulses of energy along his arms. Static prickles the hair on his forearms. Twin prongs of electric blue light burst from the backs of his hands.

Bishop doesn't even blink.

Cole blocks a vicious swing with one blade and jabs the other into Bishop's thigh. It crackles like a severed power line and makes him buckle like he's been tazed. Any other man would have gone down like a sack of rocks. Bishop just headbutts him, then cracks the baton against his collar bone.

Something fractures and pain shoots down his arm. His fingers go numb and he loses focus on the blades. They wink out, moments before he takes a second slug with the baton to the spine.

He staggers forward, trips, and falls into a roll that carries him back to his feet. Bishop's on him the moment he rises, hitting him full on with a blast of telekinesis. He crashes into the side of one of the parked APCs and ducks as the baton flies at his head.

His foot rises between Bishop's legs. He groans, drops his weapon, and puts his hands over his groin.

Cole seizes his moment. He throws his entire weight into a super-charged haymaker that connects with Bishop's jaw. A ten thousand volt punch.

His feet leave the ground. Then, he crashes to the floor, out cold.

The crowd was silent before. Now, the quiet is pregnant. The tension in the air's so thick it's making it hard to breath. Or maybe that's the broken clavicle.

"Who's next?" he yells, "huh?"

They don't move. He wishes they'd make their move and stop just standing there.

"No one's next," Marlena snaps, "Jensen. Take Cole to the infirmary and get him patched up."

A soldier starts to step forward. Cole saves him the effort.

"Don't bother. I'm out of here. I'd be better off on the streets."

Marlena grabs him by the sleeve before he can turn to leave.

"We're on your side. _I'm_ on your side."

He slaps her away. Maybe she is on his side, maybe she only thinks she is. The fact is she may as well be his enemy. Her loyalty and her command over the First Sons comes first. He's as good as alone here, even with her around.

He'd like to tell her all that. He'd like to explain. He doesn't waste his breath.

"No. You're not."

He turns on the others, jaw tight and fists clenched.

"_You_ did this. Kessler and _all _of you. You think I'm playing hero. All I'm doing is cleaning up the mess that _you _made."

The troops are staring at him. If there's a shred of remorse or disgust or pity in them for what they caused, they're not showing it. He hates them for it. They're so much more than human, but so much less too.

And it isn't their power that's made them that way. It's Kessler.

"You can fix this. _We_ can fix this. We _should_ fix this. But if you people wanna hide under your rock and piss and moan that you were meant for something better, at least have the decency to stay the hell out of my way."

He shoots a look at Marlena. Her expression is hard, unreadable. Her daddy raised her to follow in his footsteps, a leader for fanatics and sociopaths who thought that their abilities made them better than everyone else just because.

She isn't his kid. Not by a long shot.

"Call me when you're ready to get serious," he says.

She doesn't answer.

And this time, when he goes to leave, she doesn't try to stop him.

-x-x-x-x-x-


	8. Chapter Seven: With Nowhere Left to Turn

**Chapter Seven: With Nowhere Left to Turn**

The sentries let him leave the compound unchallenged. He can feel them watching, feel their minds registering his presence as a flicker. But there's no alarm and no call for backup.

He'd like to think it's because they still see him as an ally, even after what happened in the muster bay, but he's not that naïve. At best, they're keeping him sweet. They know how dangerous he can be as an enemy.

Much as he'd love to have someone to trust, he can't bring himself to take their offer at face value. Marlena's his blood, but right now that doesn't mean shit.

Hell, Kessler was _him_. And that didn't mean shit either.

There's only one person in this entire city who's even really on his side, as far as he can tell. His aimless wandering takes him in the direction of the clinic. He knows she'll be busy, but maybe a talk with Kris'll put things in perspective.

It's a hell of a question he needs answering. Team up with a bunch of murdering sociopaths to save the city, or go it alone, same as before? Maybe there is no right answer to this.

He doesn't notice anything's wrong until he's standing on the corner across the street from the clinic. The place is just a pile of blackened rubble. Smoke's bleeding skywards, entwining with the clouds.

People are just walking past. Most of them don't even notice. It's not the only fire that's happened today. He can see half a dozen other dark ribbons unfurling into the atmosphere between here and the Historic District.

He staggers across the street, staring through the burnt out facade crumbling before him. It's all that's left of one of the last bastions of safety in this broken city.

"Crying shame," someone says.

There's an older guy wearing a battered jacket and jeans standing next to him, eyes on what's left of Kris's sanctuary. His hooded eyes are wet with tears. Looks like the crying shame is literal.

"Took a bullet once, during a Reaper riot. The little lady who owned this place patched me up. Even gave me these clothes. She was a good woman. Crying shame."

Cole crushes his hands over his face. "Was?"

"You want to see her?"

-x-x-x-x-x-

The streets are the morgue now. Ever since the blast, people lay their dead at the roadside, waiting for the burial detail to come by.

Used to be that the dead just fell apart in the gutters. Then, one day, a bunch of guys from Cole's old neighbourhood picked up shovels and started patrolling the streets, picking up and burying the bodies.

Now, even the folks without family to take care of them get a burial, instead of just turning to fodder for birds and wild dogs.

The casualties from the clinic are laid out under tarp on the street leading to Archer Square. There's a guy standing guard with a sawn-off. One of the patients, paying off his bill to Kris and her volunteers. The old man nods to him, then leads Cole to the body lying in the centre of the line.

It's Kris alright, under the spackle of blood and ash and brick dust. But her neck's twisted like a corkscrew. It wasn't a fire that killed her.

He needs to see. He needs to know what happened.

He puts a hand over her eyes, lets his own fall closed, and feels the prickle of charge tumble from his fingertips. Sparks trace a path through her mind, into her memories.

He sees more dead laid out for the gravediggers. Gunshot victims who didn't make it in time to be saved. He sees through Kris's eyes as she heads back inside. He sees the clinic, overcrowded as usual, and he can feel that impotent frustration inside her, not much different from his own. She even thinks about him, in a disparaging kind of way.

He feels her alarm. Voices from the backroom. He sees a light as something explodes. Volunteers and patients are thrown to the floor. Out of the back staggers the ex-Reaper, Cole's patient, eyes wide and wild, crackling with power. Conduit, her mind screams.

Someone yells for Kris to run and then vanishes in a flash of searing light. It leaves her blind as she crawls away. For a moment, her mind is just panic and her own heavy breathing.

And then her vision swims back. The Conduit's behind her somewhere. She can't see where and she's scared. The patients can't get out. The volunteers are gone. There's a pile of them in the doorway. And blood. So much blood.

She runs at the entrance, hoping it comes after her, hoping it spares anyone who can get out of there under their own power. Something grabs her by the arms, so tight that it cuts her down to the bone. The pain is unimaginable.

A black hood looms over her. From it emerges a white face, eyes that are black from corner-to-corner, thin lips dripping tar. It tilts its head, like it doesn't know what to make of her.

"Why does he love you?"

The face disappears. The pain stops. Everything below her shoulders goes dead. She hits the floor. The world's already fading. But she hears the voice speak, one last time.

"Burn it. Burn them all."

And then Cole's out of her head. The old man and the guard are staring at him, trying to figure out what he's been doing for the last ten minutes.

It's starting to rain. He's flickering. Every drop on his skin burns like acid, even if it doesn't leave any marks.

He pulls the tarp back over Kris and takes off running. He needs a place to lay low, to wait for the rain to stop. He doesn't know anywhere. He'll just have to improvise.

It's his fault. Those patients, those medics, and Khris - they're all dead because of him. He left that Conduit with them. He brought Sasha down on them like the Angel of Death. All the power and resources of the First Sons at his disposal and he still let her slip through his fingers.

"Fell for the same trick twice," he says, grimacing as a raindrop crackles on his cheek, "damn it. Damn it!"

_Every time you fail, someone's world ends in the worst way imaginable._

Next time, she's going down. Before she can rip the heart out of this city. Before she destroys everything worth fighting for, all in the name of her sick obsession.

For now, all he can do is run.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Rain makes his powers go haywire. No matter how strong he gets, it seems like that'll always be the case. Seems kind of unfair, even ridiculous.

He waits it out on a rooftop where someone's rigged a piece of corrugated iron into an awning. It keeps him dry and that's all he can ask for. He even catches a few minutes sleep.

When he wakes up, he's not alone. Two dark shapes are standing at the edge of the roof. One of them's wearing the greatcoat, tanks and mask of the First Sons. It wakes him up better than a cold shower.

The other's wearing a suit, long hair tied back. Marlena. She puts him at ease. A little. Not by much though.

He sits up, raking a hand across the stubble on the back of his head.. "What are you doing here? Come to drag me back."

"If I was interested in dragging you anywhere, you couldn't stop me," she says.

He could debate that.

"How'd you find me anyway? You bug me?"

"I followed you. I'm not interested in monitoring you, Cole. I think I can trust you to do the right thing without watching your every move. I came to talk. Just to talk."

He pushes himself to his feet and dusts down his jacket. "So talk."

"I've had Bishop confined to the stockade. I'll deal with him personally, but that might be punishment enough. He's never been there before. Give him time and I think he'll come around. As it is, I think it's worked out for the best this way."

"Yeah, no thanks to you."

"If I had stepped in, you never could have proven yourself in front of my men. A lot of them didn't trust you. They saw you as a weak link. Now, I think they might be willing to accept you."

"That's great. There's just one problem. I don't give a damn what you and your men think of me."

"Really? You don't think having a group of powerful Conduits marching to your beat sounds worthwhile? If you're honestly that stupid then we have nothing left to talk about."

He doesn't respond. Just when he thinks he's got her figured out, everything seems to change again. Sometimes she sounds so much like Kessler. Other times, she sounds like him. He guesses its to be expected. Technically, he's just as much her daddy as Kessler was.

"Maybe I can't convince you. Maybe you're sick of listening to me. I brought someone you might want to hear out. I'll be waiting."

She turns and drops off the roof, leaving what he assumes is her bodyguard behind. The man takes a deckchair and shakes the water off it, then lowers himself into the seat.

Cole stays standing.

"Hello Cole," he says, "you probably don't remember me."

"You all look the same with those masks on."

"That's true, I suppose." He unbuckles the clasps at the back of his head and let's the mask fall away from his face. Beneath it, he's about Cole's age, with blond hair buzzed close to his scalp. "My name's Jensen Curtis. You probably don't recognise my face anyway, but you should recognise this."

He taps at his right cheek. There's a star-shaped discolouration just below his eye. It's a shock burn, the kind Cole's left on gang members and cult initiates by the dozen since the blast. Except its not the usual pink of old burn scarring. It's black, because there's tar seared into the wound.

"Ex-Reaper?"

"Ex-Reaper Conduit. You left me flat on my back in an alley somewhere, after we tried to get the drop on you one time. First Sons found me before the cops. Took me in. Cleaned me up. Educated me."

"And you've got a score to settle now, is that it?"

"Yeah, you could say that. But not with you. See, far as I'm concerned, you and Marl saved me from a fate worse than death."

"So you're working for the First Sons instead?"

Jensen shrugs. "Means to an end. I don't want what happened to me to happen to anyone else. They gave me the option to get out of the city, start fresh, learn to control my powers. I wanted to stay and fight. Responsibility. Like you said."

"That right?"

"Yeah, that's right. Marl wants to help you, Cole. And I want to help her help you. I want to pay you both back. Look at me. Look at my face. You know I'm the real deal. Bishop's been First Sons for over fifteen years. You can't judge us all based on him. Two months ago, I was just like you. So were a lot of the guys."

He sighs, staring at his boots. When he looks up again, he's wearing an expression Cole recognises. It's somewhere between overwhelmed by Empire City's situation and resigned to the knowledge that he's one of the only ones who can help fix it.

"Hell, I'm still like you. Just a man trying to do the best he can with what he's got. I figure we could all use a little more."

He holds out a hand, like he wants to seal the deal.

"So what do you say?"

-x-x-x-x-x-


End file.
